


helping me lose my mind

by theheartbelieves



Series: come out . you're hiding [1]
Category: True Detective
Genre: 2002, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Best Friends, Bottom Marty, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Sex, Emotional Sex, Explicit Consent, Glory Hole, M/M, Marty's a bit confused, Oral Sex, Pining, Rust is an asshole in this one, Sexual Frustration, Violent foreplay, mention of drug use, mention of infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-08 15:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartbelieves/pseuds/theheartbelieves
Summary: He had three choices: if he was smart, he could try to find his way back to the highway and shrug this off as Rust blowing off some steam; he could head home and try asking Rust about what was going on; or - what he already knew he was going to do - he could go inside and see for himself what was going on. It was a stupid choice. He knew it’d only lead to a confrontation. Even following Rust like this was a breach in the trust between them. But hadn’t Rust been the first to break that trust, Marty tried telling himself.Marty was starting to suspect he wasn’t a smart man.





	1. easy to see it wasted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lecterisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecterisms/gifts).



> A PWP about a glory hole got a bit out of hand. Thanks, Katie. ._______.
> 
> Diverges from canon in 1995: Marty and Maggie get divorced. Marty and Rust become best friends. Cue the canon events in 2002.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty tails Rust to find out what his partner and best friend was up to. What he finds isn't what he was looking for but everything he's secretly wanted from Rust for months.

Marty didn’t know why he was doing this. He should just _talk_ to Rust. They’d always been able to talk about this kind of shit. Well, not _always_ but long enough - years now - but Rust was acting like the old Rust, the Rust that had rubbed Marty the wrong way back in the day - cold and distant and inscrutable.

It’d all happened so suddenly from Marty’s perspective. One day, they were on the same page, working cases and spending an inordinate amount of time together; the next Laurie had kicked Rust to the kerb, he worked late into the night, and shrugged off any plans Marty suggested. All-in-all, acting reclusive and shady. And sure, Rust had never been the most emotive of fellas, but nowadays he was downright sullen.

When Rust had casually mentioned that he and Laurie had broken up, Marty had expected a few nights of getting drunk and commiserating, maybe going out to a bar. He wasn’t proud that a not-so-small part of him thrilled that he’d get more of Rust’s time. He’d justified that selfishness by telling himself that it was because his own life was so empty since the divorce.

He got the girls every other weekend and every Wednesday, but other than that, Marty spent his nights alone or with Rust. Somehow, in the years between Rust walking into Marty’s life, Marty’s life falling apart around his ears, and the present… Rust had become Marty’s best friend.

That Rustin Cohle was his best friend would have concerned his old self, but Rust had changed; they both had. Marty didn’t know how to explain it, but Rust got him in a way that no one else ever had. As for Rust, Marty had to assume that he enjoyed Marty’s company too. Marty’d never been quite sure what the man got out of it, but he wasn’t going to complain that someone as brilliant as Rust chose to spend his time with him. After all, it had been Rust who’d been there for him after Maggie and his second attempt at things fell apart so quickly after ninety-five.

As far as Marty was concerned, that meant he owed Rust a big one, and right now Marty was worried bordering on panicked. Beyond wanting to help his friend, the further away Rust pulled, the more Marty realised how empty his life was. Marty missed his friend, not to even mention the strain Rust’s new reclusiveness was putting on their professional relationship.

He’d given Rust space; he’d given him time. He thought that surely, Rust would come around from whatever funk his split with Laurie had thrown him into, but it was verging on six months now and nothing looked like it was going to change. Marty was fucking tired of waiting, and what about _his_ feelings, huh? He felt like he’d been patient enough.

So that was why he was sitting in his car in the shadow of the buildings across the street from the precinct. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Rust when he said for the umpteenth time that he was working late, but…

Marty didn’t believe him.

But he’d been sitting in the dark for over an hour and was beginning to feel silly. Along with the slight embarrassment of being wrong, it was starting to dawn on him that maybe Rust just… didn’t want to be friends anymore. He pushed that possibility away, unable to deal with what that would mean for him given… recent developments on Marty’s end.

His watch ticked over to nine o’clock.

“I’ll give it thirty more minutes,” he mumbled to himself, shifting uncomfortably in the driver’s seat.

He’d taken to talking to himself recently. Solitude - and Marty had to admit it, loneliness - did strange things to a man’s mind. He really hoped that was all that was happening with Rust, and not something more serious, like a backslide. He didn’t want a repeat of those wild, breathless weeks he’d spent with Crash and the feverish recovery afterwards.

No, he didn’t want that, even if brought them back together. Those tense, surreal months had been the real beginning of their partnership: them helping each other through that case, then Marty helping Rust regain his equilibrium after, and then Rust consoling Marty through his divorce with his strange, particular brand of tough love.

Ninety-five had been a hell of a strange year, what with Marty moving in and out of Rust’s place twice - the first time out of necessity and the second time at Rust’s invitation.

Okay, so maybe he missed those days a little. He’d never been lonely. Often irritated, but never lonely. He wondered if Rust would be open to rooming it again now that he’d called it quits with Laurie, then reminded himself that he was in his forties. Two guys in their thirties sharing a house was pathetic enough. Two guys in their forties was downright sad.

But wasn’t that what Marty already was? Sad. He’d rather be sad in Rust’s company than sad alone. He huffed out an irritated breath. Living with Rust was out of the question, anyway.

“Jesus, Marty. Fuck this. Go home,” Marty chastised himself through gritted teeth. This was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. He started his car and put it into gear. “I think maybe it’s time you get out more.”

Maybe he’d try dating again. That cute girl from the phone store had been flirting with him for months now whenever he hit up his local watering hole. He knew what was holding him back, but he knew even better that it was fruitless. Besides, it was too confusing, this… whatever you wanted to call it- crush? It was probably just a passing fancy.

 _Sure, Marty_ , Rust’s voice said in his head. _An infatuation you’ve been ignoring for the better part of a year._

Just then, the doors to the precinct building opened and a lean figure strode out and down the stairs. Marty didn’t need to wait until the figure passed under one of the parking lot’s lights to know it was Rust. He’d recognise the shape of Rust’s silhouette, the cadence of his walk, the rhythm of his movements anywhere. Marty’s eyes darted to the clock on his dash: 09:23 PM. He sighed.

At least he’d kept his promise to himself, even though it was merely a distraction from the fact that he was staking out his partner.

Rust climbed into his truck, spent a moment arranging things in the cabin, and then reversed out of his parking spot. Marty tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to flip on his lights and immediately follow his partner. He told himself that he’d most likely follow Rust back to his place, feel like a paranoid idiot, then he could put this behind him and chalk it up to the man dealing with a break up in his own peculiar way. Marty would go back to the drawing board - keep waiting or finally confront Rust so that they could have it out, once and for all.

He let Rust turn out of the parking lot, passing right by Marty’s hiding spot, and counted to ten before pulling out after him. Since it was dark, Marty let Rust put some distance between them. He was still easy to spot. That red truck Rust stubbornly held onto was distinctive.

Marty’s stomach sank when Rust turned off the surface roads and onto the highway. Which meant he wasn’t going home. Which meant he’d been lying to Marty. That hurt more than he expected it to. Hot on the heels of  humiliated hurt came anger.

Why was Rust lying to him? Marty’d told him every damn thing happening in his life and - he’d thought - Rust had too, even the ugly, embarrassing bits.

Well… Maybe not _all_ the embarrassing bits. He certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about the slow, inexorable, intensifying creep of his attraction towards Rust - too afraid to risk the friendship just because his dick wanted something it couldn’t have.

They settled onto Highway 10, heading out of town. Marty really hoped Rust had a closer destination in mind than Baton Rouge, but there were only small towns between here and there as far as Marty knew. The city was only about an hour’s drive, but that meant at least two hours before Marty could be back home and in bed. He sighed, set his cruise control, and let his mind wander, keeping Rust in sight but letting a few cars get in between them.

He certainly hadn’t shared the bits where Marty found himself staring at Rust whenever they were together: the way the corners of his mouth expressed so much with just the slightest quirk, the new wrinkles around his storm blue eyes, how Rust was ever so slightly going grey at the temples of his ridiculous new haircut.

And certainly not how Marty wanted to drag his fingers through that cropped hair; see those blue eyes up close in order to catalogue all the different shades; kiss the fine lines etched in Rust’s skin that mapped their years together; and lick the downturned corners of that mouth after Marty said something particularly exasperating, or even better, taste the flavour of Rust rare, joyful laugh.

It wasn’t the first time Marty wanted to fuck a guy- it wouldn’t _be_ his first time, technically… But his thoughts recently had skewed towards the sentimental rather than the carnal, and they’d only gotten worse after Rust’s breakup.

Marty had gone and gotten his damn hopes up like the fool he was.

Red tail lights startled him from his thoughts. Rust was slowing down and veering towards an exit. In his inattention, Marty had crept up on him; too close. Without signalling, Marty changed lanes to follow. He hoped the abruptness wouldn’t draw attention, but it’s not like he had much of a choice if he didn’t want to lose his mark.

“Fuck,” Marty muttered. He’d missed the exit sign so he had no idea what towns were around here. He glanced at the clock; they’d only been driving for about twenty minutes, so even if he didn’t recognise where they were, it wouldn’t be hard to find his way back. If he lost Rust now, he’d have to turn around and head back home.

“Or just talk to him again, jackass. And don’t let him pull that avoidant crap on you,” he muttered absentmindedly to himself and he peer out his windscreen, searching for any signage that might indicate his location. Nothing but county road markers and Marty didn’t know the area well enough for those to help.

Off of the highway, they were out in the country and Marty had to drop so far back that he had to make guesses at a few intersections. Where the fuck was Rust leading him? There wasn’t hide nor hair of a town anywhere near.

Then he turned down a gravel road, completely lost and convinced that Rust had given him the slip, only for the lights of a dive bar to rise up out of the dark. Rust’s red truck was squeezed in between two other country boy specials. His beige Buick was going to stand out like a sore thumb. Just fucking great.

Marty drove past the place and flipped his car around the first chance he got, crawling back towards the bar. He pulled off the side of the road and studied the place.

“What the fuck you up to, Rust?” he murmured. As far as he could see, it was just a country bar; a little rough, a little rowdy, but just a bar. It landed somewhere on the spectrum between the places he frequented in Lafayette and that biker bar he’d followed Crash into.

He had three choices: if he was smart, he could try to find his way back to the highway and shrug this off as Rust blowing off some steam; he could head home and try asking Rust about what was going on; or - what he already knew he was going to do - he could go inside and see for himself what was going on. It was a stupid choice. He knew it’d only lead to a confrontation. Even following Rust like this was a breach in the trust between them. But hadn’t Rust been the first to break that trust, Marty tried telling himself.

Marty was starting to suspect he wasn’t a smart man.

He parked around the side of the bar, far away from the lone, bug-shrouded halogen that pitifully illuminated the lot. Was he really going to do this? Even as he waffled, he knew he was going to.

Marty was starting to suspect that he may be, in fact, an actual idiot.

He tugged off his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He wasn’t really dressed for blending in at a place like this, but fuck it. He wasn’t here to blend in. He was here to finally get some fucking answers. He stepped out of the car, braced himself, and walked into the bar.

Two things hit Marty nearly simultaneously: that the place was busy for how remote it was and that it was filled with men… and _only_ men.

He’d just tailed his partner into a gay bar.

Heat flooded his cheeks at the realisation and he stepped back, thinking he could just leave, and never, ever mention this to Rust. Ever. If he’d manage not to _think_ about it was an entirely different matter. There had to be another explanation. There _had_ to be, but his mind kept looping back in on itself, tripping over the possibility that Rust liked men.

And Marty hadn’t known. Again, that stupid pang of betrayal. It wasn’t like he’d been forthcoming about his own sexuality. But no… There had to be something else.

Marty needed to get out of here.

He had the door halfway open again when he spotted the back of Rust’s head disappearing down the back hallway. He froze with one foot trying to get him to flee and the other unbearably curious, already stepping in the direction Rust had gone. He let his curiosity win.

Marty wasn’t just an idiot, he was reckless.

He stepped up to the bar first, though. He wasn’t ready for this confrontation - he didn’t think he’d ever be ready for it - but a little liquid courage couldn’t hurt.

“Jack,” he told the bartender and then held up two fingers. The man poured him a double into a tumbler and Marty shot it back, grimacing at the way it burned. He pulled out his wallet and slid a ten over the bartop. “Thanks.”

He pushed away from the bar rail and made his way towards the hallway in the back. He had to push his way through the press of bodies, becoming very aware of how tight the jeans these men were wearing. Sure, there were a few that looked more like him - flannel and denim that wouldn’t be out of place at a sports bar - but so many of them were obviously showing off their bodies.

Marty tried not to look too hard at any one of them, but a few caught his eye anyway. One guy even winked at him. Marty looked away quickly, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. It was too hot in here and it was a relief to step into the dimness of the hallway. The relative quiet and sudden absence of pressing bodies was a relief.

The hall was short; doors leading to the kitchen, to what looked like the manager’s office, to two bathrooms - both with white stick-figure men on them - and an emergency exit straight back with an glowing sign bathing the corridor in an faintly ominous red light.

 _Shit_. If Rust had spotted him, this is exactly the way to give Marty the slip, escaping out the back before circling around the building to make his getaway. Instead of disappointment, Marty just felt relief. There would still be an awkward conversation waiting for him with Rust, but at least it would be something Marty could steer back towards being concerned rather than treading far too close to territory Marty wasn’t ready to address openly yet.

This was good. Marty took a deep breath. He could go home and deal with it all in the morning. Rust would be mad, Marty would be contrite, and then they could go out for beers; really deal with this like men. Hell, they would probably even laugh about this, given time - the time Rust tricked Marty into following him to a gay bar.

Marty chuckled to himself, shoulders loosening. Yeah, they’d be fine. They’d been through worse, after all. That decided it. Marty would go home. But first he needed to duck into the men’s room. His relief had left him feeling a bit shaky. He wanted to splash a little water on his face and calm down before he got back into his car.

The tiny room had two stalls, a lone urinal, and a sink. It struck him as a bit strange, but all these old buildings had been repurposed and renovated so many times, they usually were architecturally odd. It humored him that with the twin stalls, the space looked a bit like a grungy confessional, but he was glad for a moment to himself. All the adrenaline that had flooded him had left him feeling slightly unsteady and queasy.

He pissed in the urinal and then washed his hands, glancing up at himself in the filthy, cracked mirror. His reflection gave him pause. He looked pale and tired. The prospect of driving back to Lafayette suddenly seemed a monumental task. He wanted to already be home and in his bed. He’d gotten himself out here. No use complaining about a situation he’d manufactured.

There was one of those blower dryers on the wall. Amusingly, there was a sticker of a dick, circled and slashed out, carefully applied to the white enamel of the device. Marty supposed there was a story behind it. He huffed out a breath and dried his hands with a paper towel instead, wary of the dick dryer.

He turned to throw away the crumpled towel and immediately realised his mistake: he wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two familiar dress shoes visible under the door to one of the stalls. Marty sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling like there wasn’t enough air in the room.

 _Some fucking detective you are, Hart_.

Rust hadn’t escaped him. He’d come in here. Why? Marty knew Rust could easily have hidden from him, if he wanted to. Why lead him into the privacy of the bathroom and then remain quiet, only to give himself away like this?

The shoes shifted further apart and in his mind’s eye, Marty could see Rust sitting on the toilet seat, elbows on his knees, patiently waiting. Waiting for Marty? Marty gently placed the paper towel in the trash and moved to the door.

 _Run_ , a voice in his head whispered. He rested his hand against the battered wood, planning on doing just that. Instead, he slid his palm to the deadbolt and turned it. The sound of the bolt sliding home was loud in the room.

The silence wasn’t like the electric calm before a storm, but rather heavy with anticipation. In other words, Marty didn’t feel like he had a fight coming and it confused him. He hoped it wasn’t all in his head. He hoped- He tried not to give himself time to think about it.

He stepped into the unoccupied stall and latched it behind him. He closed the toilet seat and sat down, mirroring the pose he’d imagined Rust taking - feet planted wide, elbows propped on knees. Sitting like this, the similarity to a confessional strengthened. Maybe they’d finally be able to talk like this.

Except that by leaning forward, it was impossible for Marty to miss the hole that had been cut out in the divider separating the stalls. It was nothing like the traditional latticed grating. No, this was no confessional. There was nothing holy about this place.

The hole was about four or five inches wide, perfectly round, it’s edges smoothed down carefully. Marty wanted to reach out and trace the circle, but he clenched his fists and held himself still. He knew what it was - Hell, who wouldn’t? - but in all his years in shitty bars and as a cop, he’d never come across one.

He waited. He wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. Part of him hoped Rust would break this unbearable silence. The rest of him was entirely focused on that damn hole.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Rust shifted his foot under the plastic divider, breaking the invisible line the demarcated this stall from the other, stopping mere inches shy of Marty’s own foot.

No, this was a confessional of a completely different kind.

Marty didn’t even remember making the decision. He moved his foot to press against the side of Rust’s. Just that slight contact, even muted through layers of clothing, shivered up his leg as if they weren’t wearing anything at all. Marty shivered again at the thought of Rust touching his bare skin with the same careful deliberation he applied to everything in his life.

He opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t know what, but he felt like he might die if he didn’t break the silence that was strangling him. He wanted to tear out of the stall and run. He wanted to break down the door to Rust’s stall and haul him to his feet, consequences be damned. Marty had no idea what the rules were to this game that Rust had initiated, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to play.

He was saved from himself and simultaneously damned by Rust before he could utter anything. Two fingers appeared from the hole. Marty would know those fingers anywhere. He’d studied them and the hands that they belonged to, and now that he was here, he had to be honest… He’d imagined those fingers doing things to him more than once while he jerked off.

All thoughts of leaving the stall disappeared as the fingers crooked - once… twice… - before retreating again. Rust’s foot drew away at the same time and there was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the divider.

Marty stood like a sleepwalker. He felt as though he were watching himself from a far distance as he unbuckled his belt and pulled out his erection. He didn’t know how long he’d been hard. Had it been when he stalked Rust across the bar room floor? Or maybe when he’d realised that Rust was in the stall? Or when Rust had touched him?

It didn’t matter. He was hard as a fucking rock now.

Marty crowded close to the divider, gripping the top of it with one hand and guiding his cock through the hole with the other, breathless with the anticipation and inherent vulnerability of the action. He felt lightheaded from it. Not even the odd sensation of cold plastic pressing up under his balls could dull his anticipation.

He breathed in… out… waiting; each breath an act of will as fear prickled at his scalp. What if he’d misread the situation?

Then calloused fingers closed around him and Marty gasped as Rust gave a nice, slow stroke. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against the plastic, tipping his hips so that he was pushed flush against the barrier. It felt taboo and dirty and _terrific_. Behind his eyelids, he imagined Rust on the other side. Was he already on his knees? Was he even planning on that? Or would this be a handjob?

Marty didn’t care. He didn’t _care_. He didn’t even care if he came. Rust was touching him with surprisingly gentle and lingering strokes. Marty would never fucking forget this.

Rust’s breath ghosting against his skin was the only warning Marty got before a hot, sucking mouth swallowed him down. Marty’s other hand flew up to grab at the top of the stall, knuckles barking painfully against the hard plastic. His first instinct had been to reach for Rust’s hair, forgetting that there was a wall keeping them apart. He clenched his hands and imagined gripping the short hair at the back of Rust’s skull, guiding him as he bobbed- as his was bobbing right now, thumb and forefinger circled around the base.

“Christ…” Marty groaned under his breath. It’d been months - no, almost a year - since anyone else had touched him and this was _Rust_ . _RustRustRust_ , his blood pounded in time with Rust’s mouth sinking down onto his cock over and over. There was no way Marty was going to last. Rust swirled his tongue around the head of Marty’s dick, sliding his hand down to cup his balls. It was the gentleness that did Marty in; game over. Marty made a strangled sound and came harder than he had in a long time.

Rust swallowed around him, until just this side of overstimulation, and then pulled off with a soft pop. Marty stumbled back, collapsing onto the toilet seat at an odd angle. Fuck, that’d been good… great…

But now, with his mind clear in the aftermath, Marty’s skin felt tight and hot. Did Rust expect him to reciprocate? Did _Marty_ want to? He thought that maybe he did. He’d never sucked off another man before, but for Rust? Anything.

As he thought it, he wondered if it was true. It certainly felt true in the moment.

He reached towards the hole. He could signal the same way, but something held him back. He wanted this with Rust, but he didn’t want this pantomime of anonymity. The enormity of his desire - to touch Rust, to see Rust come apart, to be _seen_ doing this - paralysed him. His hand hung frozen midair, eyes locked on that small hole where contact was possible.

The door to the other stall creaked open and Rust walked out. Marty need to to get up; needed to stop him. Fear kept him cemented in place, his pants still bunched up around his thighs and cock out. The sink turned on, there was the sounds of splashing water, then silence; that same heavy void, except this time it felt full of expectation. It was oppressive.

Rust wasn’t running. Marty had time. He could still make this right. _Move_ , he screamed at himself, but then the deadbolt clicked and then Rust was gone.

What the fuck had Marty just done?

\---

Marty didn’t remember leaving the bar.

Marty didn’t remember driving home.

He didn’t remember letting himself into his apartment.

It wasn’t until he was standing in the darkness of his bedroom that his mind finally caught up with him.

He stripped off his clothes. He remembered doing this after fucking Lisa. He remember the mingled regret and pleasure at the way he’d smelled like her. But now, there was none of that. He didn’t smell like anything but himself after a long day at work. He held his shirt to his face. The only evidence of what had just happened was the faint, lingering smell of cigarette smoke from the bar. The only regret he felt was due to _not_ smelling like Rust. He shoved them to the bottom of the hamper in disappointment; ashamed that he was disappointed.

He threw himself onto his bed and replayed the evening’s events over in his mind, chasing the imaginary outcomes if he’d made different - _better_ \- decisions.

He should have gone home after work instead of following Rust. He should have waited to ask Rust about the bar instead of trailing him inside. He should have addressed Rust as soon as he realised Rust was in the bathroom with him instead of engaging in some sort of fucked up form of chicken. He should have stopped Rust after. He should have opened that damned stall, pushed Rust up against the grimy wall, and seen what he tasted like on Rust’s lips.

_Shoulda, woulda, coulda..._

He tried very hard not to dwell on what Rust must think about him; about what Rust might have wanted out of this encounter. Marty was pretty sure he hadn’t given Rust anything close to what he wanted.

The regret came slowly, piling up and weighing him down, pinning him to the mattress so that he couldn’t move.

Marty didn’t sleep until the sun painted the edges of his curtains with its pale fingers, and even then, when he finally drifted off, he dreamed about Rust - his fingers, his mouth, his eyes… every bit of him driving Marty out of his mind.


	2. too much to handle now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty goes back for seconds - and answers - but it's not Rust he gets and there are no answers to be found. Marty isn't even remotely prepared for what he gets instead.

He didn’t get up and about until late Saturday afternoon. He knew he should clean his apartment or go grocery shopping or work out. He knew he should do anything but dwell on what had happened the previous night.

But Marty was very good at not doing what he  _ should  _ do.

He called Rust’s house. The man, as he had been doing so often as of late, didn’t answer, so Marty left a message. 

“Hey-a, Rust… Was wondering if you wanted to get a drink tonight. Been a while.” Marty swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed by himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and forged full-steam ahead against all better judgement. “There’s this, uh- this bar off Highway 10. So, uhm… let me know if you wanna meet up there.”

He hung up and dithered around the apartment, waiting for Rust to call him back. He wouldn’t go if Rust didn’t call him back.

But the afternoon wore on into evening and Marty’s resolve wore down with it. Even if Rust didn’t call him back, he’d go. He could have a drink and maybe flirt a bit. It looked like it was time to stop ignoring this part of himself.

He showered and got dressed - jeans, a checked shirt, work boots. He studied himself in the bathroom mirror and tried to see himself as a stranger would, but all he could see was a formerly athletic, middle-aged man gone slightly to seed. 

Of course Rust hadn’t called him back. Why the fuck  _ would  _ Rust want someone like him? Who would?

It didn’t stop him from climbing his truck and heading East on the highway as soon as the sun started to set. He wasn’t sure if he could even find the bar again, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure what to expect once he got there.

He spent the entirety of the forty minute drive waffling back and forth between doubt and resolve. He got lost on the country roads and convinced himself for a good ten minutes that it was a sign that he should just go the fuck home, but then the bar was there, a beacon in the surrounding darkness.

When he pulled into the lot, there was no sign of Rust’s truck. That was that. A weight lifted from him even as disappointment set in.

“Just go home, you idiot,” he growled under his breath. Rust not being there was as clear of an answer as he could expect. “Go home and pretend it never happened.”

Internal conflict tied his stomach into knots. It was his own fault for expecting anything in the first place, even if he hadn’t been aware he’d being doing it.

“Fuck it.” He’d go with his Plan B: go in, get a drink, maybe chat a little before going back to his lonely apartment where he could get well and properly drunk by himself. There had to be an ideal level of inebriation that would allow him to jerk off to the memory of Friday night with a minimum of guilt.

Just the thought of it sent anticipation coiling low in his belly, chasing away his confusion. This was so fucked up. He knew it was fucked up. He also knew he’d not be getting over the encounter anytime soon, even if it was just the once. He’d be playing it over in his mind until he wore it out.

He pushed into the bar with his head down. He wasn’t interested in talking to anyone just yet. He didn’t think he could handle getting hit on without a few beers in his system. Right now, he just wanted a stiff drink and then see where the night took him, so that he could put this whole stupid thing behind him.

He slid onto an empty barstool and leaned his elbows on the bartop. The room was noisy. There was some sort of pop-country song playing over all the racket; a sad excuse to dance.

Or maybe Marty was just in a shitty mood because he unjustifiably felt stood up.

“What’ll it be?” said the bartender, pulling Marty’s attention away from the stormcloud weighing down on him.

“Whiskey, double. Beer chaser,” Marty mumbled. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Make that two,” a familiar voice said from behind him. Marty sat up straight and felt heat rise in his face. The bartender raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. Coming up.” He turned and pulled two Budweisers from a cooler. Rust pushed between Marty’s stool and the man sitting beside him, propping himself against the bar. 

Rust was dressed like he belonged here - tight black jeans and fitted tee. He looked sleek and dangerous and devastating. Just as sharp and deadly as Crash but with Rust’s intimidating lucidity. His stomach pressed up against Marty’s thigh. He tried ignoring it; tried focusing on forming a coherent sentence.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he whispered, leaning in close to be heard. Rust didn’t look at him. The bartender turned back around and slid their drinks across to them.

“That’ll be eighteen,” he said, ignoring Marty completely and smiling at Rust. Marty sighed, rolling his eyes, and reached for his wallet. Rust stopped him with a warm hand on his knee.

“Let me.” Rust dug a twenty out of his pocket and passed it to the bartender without looking. Marty could feel Rust’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from that hand. Heat seemed to radiate outward from that point of contact.

He knew Rust had touched him countless times in their time together. Hell, he’d  _ blown  _ him just last night, but for the life of him, Marty couldn’t think of a single instance where Rust had voluntarily laid hands on him like this. Rust had defended himself from Marty, had restrained Marty, had guided Marty when he was too drunk to keep himself upright, but he’d never been overly touchy.

It was only now that he realised there’d always been an established distance between them… and that Rust had been the enforcer of that distance. It had always been Marty reaching for Rust.

All those evenings together out at bars or restaurants; all those nights at each other’s places, sharing Marty’s couch or Rust’s mattress while they talked over movies; all those countless times they’d gotten drunk together or slept over…

Marty could see it so clearly now. Rust had always kept him at arm’s length. It took this - this singular contact, this bridge - to bring it into focus.

“A friend invited me out,” Rust said, withdrawing his hand. Marty could feel the outline of it on his skin like a brand. He wanted to trace the outline; to memorise the feeling. He was very, painfully aware that each moment here could be both a first but also a last if he didn’t play his cards right.

It was distracting, so he wasn’t quite paying attention to what his mouth was doing.

“A friend?” he echoed. Rust picked up both tumblers of whiskey and handed one to Marty.

“I think friend would be a fair assessment. Drink.” Rust shot the whiskey back, exposing the strong line of his jaw and neck while Marty dumbly watched. He knew he should be joining in, but he couldn’t seem to keep up with what was happening. He wanted to set the whiskey aside and pull Rust to him. He wanted to lick a stripe up over Rust’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

Now that Rust had stepped across the space between them, letting Marty close after all these years, all Marty wanted to do was press closer, but this game was throwing him. And he’d already been confused enough.

“Ru-” Rust cut him off again by nudging the bottom of Marty’s glass.

“Come on.” Marty obediently took the shot, grimacing at the burn. When he opened his eyes, Rust was waiting. He swapped Marty’s empty glass for the beer, then tapped the neck of the bottles together in a sort of casual toast. “Cheers.”

“Yeah…” Marty said under his breath, then mentally shook himself. He raised his bottle. “To…  _ friends _ .”

Rust gave him a hard, searching look. It was the same way he looked at suspects under interrogation and it made Marty deeply uncomfortable. This whole situation made him deeply uncomfortable. He felt like he was ten steps behind Rust, which wasn’t foreign to him but this had him wrong footed in an entirely new way.

He took a sip of his beer to buy time and to think about what was going on. What was Rust playing at by pretending he didn’t know Marty; that it wasn’t Marty that’d invited him out tonight? Was this just an extension of the anonymity of their last encounter?

If so, Marty found he wasn’t as interested. The excitement for him had been knowing it  _ was  _ Rust on the other side of that wall. It was  _ Rust  _ he wanted. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany but it still stole the breath out of Marty’s lungs.

He wanted Rust - that he knew all too well - but he just as badly wanted Rust to want him back.

The stakes here were too high for him to be playing games, even for a betting man like Marty. He set his beer down on the bartop and pushed back his stool. He needed a moment.

“I’ll be right back.” He touched Rust’s elbow and then, because he knew he could, he ran his hand up to his shoulder and squeezed before turning to leave. Even that brief contact was enough to send Marty’s heart hammering and to leave his fingers tingling.

He planned on stepping out front where he could bum a cigarette from someone. He half hoped Rust would follow him and they could share the cigarette and talk. They could drop this fucking farce and just  _ talk  _ like they used to.

The path to the front door was jammed with people trying to get drinks, so he edged his way along the bar and worked his way towards the bathroom instead, thinking he could use the back exit, but when he reached the hall, he impulsively pushed inside the bathroom. He knew what he was doing. He was daring Rust to follow him. There was no other way this could be interpreted. It was an invitation.

There was a man at the sink and another at the urinal so Marty locked himself in his stall  - hilarious that he thought of it that way - and sat there. He could barely hear anything over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, but he knew the moment Rust entered. There was a shift in energy, like the rest of the world falling away, and suddenly his blood was occupied elsewhere. As confused as Marty was, his dick knew exactly what it wanted.

Marty leaned over and planted his face in his hands. What was he doing? This was exactly the opposite of what he should be doing. They needed to talk, not do… whatever this was.

He didn’t even wait for Rust to signal this time. As soon as Rust stepped into the stall, Marty was on his feet and fumbling with his belt. Eager - too eager - but so was Rust judging by the black jean clad knees Marty could see under the stall divider. He guided himself through the hole and-

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” he bit out as Rust gripped him and immediately licked up the underside of Marty’s erection. Marty grabbed the top of the wall and groaned. “Oh fuuuuck,  _ baby _ …”

Marty tipped his hips flush against the barrier and Rust met him, wrapping his lips around the head of Marty’s cock and sucking just how he liked before bobbing his head slowly, making Marty’s toes curl. It was even better than last time, without the uncertainty of if Rust knew it was Marty he was blowing. There was no way either of them could plead ignorance now.

Marty felt something touch his leg and he cracked his eyes open, looking down from where he had his forehead pressed against the plastic. He sort of regretted looking because there was nothing to see. With his eyes closed, he could picture Rust on his knees in front of him; could indulge in the fantasy of what he wanted so badly that he nearly choked on it.

Then he realised what the sensation was: it was Rust tentatively touching the hem of his jeans with his free hand. Marty sucked in a breath just as Rust slipped his fingers underneath to touch the bare skin of Marty’s ankle. 

His mouth was still doing wicked things - pulling almost all the way off, tonguing at his glans, and swallowing him again in a maddening rhythm - but Marty’s brain could barely think past those damn pressure points just above the cuff of his sock. Marty would have laughed before tonight if he’d ever been told that gentle fingers skimming over his ankle bone and further up to grip ahold of his calf muscle would be one of the most erotic sensations of his goddamn life. But here he was, being brought to the edge by a touch on his leg.

“ _ Jesus… Rust… _ ” The name came out unbidden and loud in the quiet of the small room. Rust paused.

For a breathless moment, Marty feared he’d broken an unspoken rule, but then Rust sank his mouth down as far as he could, deep throating Marty’s cock with a pleased hum. He squeezed Marty’s leg, nails digging into his skin, and Marty came.

“Oh  _ shitshit _ SHIT,” he muttered, holding onto the barrier as his orgasm took him by surprise. He barely managed to stay on his feet as Rust swallowed. Marty hated that he couldn’t see this. He needed to see this; needed to see the look on Rust’s face; needed to tell Rust just how fucking  _ good _ he felt.

Rust’s fingers slipped away from Marty’s leg. The heat of his mouth disappeared. Marty wanted to stop the withdrawal. It felt as though Rust was taking something vital from Marty as he drew away. 

_ Stay _ , Marty wanted to say, but his tongue was too numb to say anything. Marty didn’t have the words. He wanted to repeat Rust’s name, over and over until Rust understood what Marty really meant; until Marty understood himself.

A hand gently cupped Marty’s softening cock, fingers grazing along its length. Marty sighed at both the tenderness and the brevity. He kept his eyes clenched tight and held onto the top of the divider like it was a lifeline. It felt like if he let go now, he’d be letting go of Rust.

“ _ Rust _ …” Rust was  _ right there _ , mere inches from him and yet unreachable. Even without the barrier, Marty didn’t know if the man would ever be attainable, but at least he have the chance do what he wanted to do in his post-orgasmic haze. Without this wall between them, Marty would push Rust against the nearest vertical surface and kiss that clever, wicked, talented mouth with everything he had.

A warm hand curled over one of Marty’s where it gripped the top of the barrier.

Marty held his breath. The silence was only broken by the rustling of fabric and the buzz of a zipper, and then-

“ _ Jesus… _ ” Marty breathed as something firm brushed against his cock.  _ Rust _ … Rust’s erection… Rust’s fingers bumping against Marty as he jerked himself off. Blood roared in Marty’s ears and he groaned.

He was forty- _ fucking _ -four. He was too old to get another erection this soon. Marty wanted a glass of water and a goddamn  _ nap _ , but his body vehemently disagreed with him, and when Rust carefully wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks, Marty had to agree with his body. This was definitely better than a nap.

Rust’s grip was light, almost teasing. It was perfect. The man was going to be the death of him and Marty’d thank him.

“ _ Fuck me… Rust… _ ” Marty sighed, breath hiccoughing when he realised that he meant it. He wanted  _ that _ . He wanted Rust to fuck him; wanted to fuck Rust; wanted Rust in his life as his partner… friend… 

Marty fucking missed Rust’s presence in his life so much that his chest ached with the longing.

Marty shifted his thumb to stroke the side of Rust’s forefinger. He was scared to do more; scared Rust would stop or that the small movement would break the spell between them. But Rust’s thumb moved to meet his, trailing from knuckle to wrist, before pressing against Marty’s pulse. 

Marty huffed out a breath, amused. The smug bastard could have this - Marty’s racing heart - if he’d just keep touching him. There was no way Marty was going to come again, but he never wanted Rust to stop touching him.

And  _ Christ _ , the way Rust was touching him - lingering on his up strokes to swipe his thumb over the head of both their cocks, then down, leaning into Marty… pressure and heat and friction - like he was in no fucking hurry to come. If their roles were reversed, Marty would be desperate and fast, but this felt personal and like it  _ meant  _ something.

With his heart in his throat, Marty moved his hand and threaded his fingers through Rust’s.

“Rust…  _ please _ …,” Marty whispered, choking on words he didn’t even know he wanted to say. He didn’t even know what he was asking for other than  _ more _ . “Please.”

Rust let go of Marty’s erection so that all Marty felt was the brush of Rust’s knuckles. He closed his eyes and listened to the uptick in Rust’s breathing.  _ Fuck _ , he wanted to see this. He wanted to drop to his knees and take Rust apart.

The thought of Rust - controlled, cool, aloof Rust - shaking apart at the seams had Marty shifting his hips back and taking his erection in hand. He still held tight to Rust over the top of the divider. He didn’t plan on letting go any time soon.

“ _ Fuck… Rust… I want- I- _ ” He stroked himself fast, lost in the slick rhythm Rust was setting. 

_ I want to touch you; kiss you. I want to take you to bed and wake up to you in the morning. I want to be the one you come to when shit gets hard. I want you to turn to me. I want- I want- I want- _ Marty couldn’t get the enormity of his desire to fit in the shape of words, so instead he squeezed Rust’s hand and stopped breathing when Rust gave a soft grunt and squeezed back hard enough to hurt.

_ Shitshitshit _ , Marty’s mind stuttered, body freezing.  _ Is this what Rust sounds like when he comes? _

Rust stilled and panted, unmoving. In the silence, Marty realised he was still holding his cock and reality chose that moment to reassert itself, hitting him hard. Shame and embarrassment and a dozen reasons to run away flooded his nervous system. He trembled with the contradictory signals - disgust and desire, flight and determination, fear and overwhelming affection _. _

Slowly and reluctantly, he untangled his fingers from Rust’s and tucked himself back into his jeans, wincing as he was still half-hard, but all the urgency had gone from it. He took his time, delaying what he knew was coming, yet anticipating it at the same time. He felt like he’d been keeping himself in limbo for weeks… months… even years. He felt foolish now, for not seeing that it’d always been Rust holding him back.

It’d always been Rust.

Marty unlatched the stall and braced himself. He’d tell Rust. He’d just… get it out there; that this was great but he wanted more. Marty was expecting to be rejected; was already half sick with the inevitability. But he couldn’t do this again. He didn’t want to pretend to be strangers, not if there was the slightest chance he could have this with  _ Rust _ .

And certain not if he wanted to be able to look Rust in the eye outside of this… whatever it was.

Rust was already at the sink when Marty opened the stall door. He was washing his hands, head down, so Marty took a second to take him in: the long line of his legs, the curve of his ass, the bow of his back… all the hidden places Marty wanted to discover.

He looked higher and Rust caught his eye in the mirror and raised an eyebrow. Marty blushed, caught out. He shrugged, trying to smile but the familiar expression felt forced, crooked and unnatural. His skin foreign and ill-fitting.

Rust turned and hit the button on the hand dryer. Marty stepped up to the sink and went through the motions of washing his hands. The atmosphere pressed down on him, like the pressure front of a storm.

For fuck’s sake, they’d done this hundreds of times at bars all over the state. Marty should make a joke about the sticker on the dryer and Rust would respond with something pedantic that Marty would roll his eyes at. Then they could go back out and have a few drinks until it was easier to talk about what had just happened.

They should know how to do this.

Marty turned off the tap and moved closer to Rust. Just facing him and looking at him straight-on made him feel better. The ghost of a smile threatened as Rust hit the button again for him. He was just about to ignore the hand dryer and wipe his hands on Rust’s shirt, when Rust stepped back.

“Good thing my friend didn’t show,” Rust said, and Marty realised that Rust wasn’t looking at him, he was looking past Marty at a point on the wall behind him. His optimism disappeared, smothered once again by uncertainty. Rust pivoted stiffly on his heel and reached for the door. “That was… fun.”

“Fun…” Marty found himself parroting, once again left in Rust’s wake. “Yeah…”

“See you around…” Rust muttered to the door as he unlocked it, pausing for a beat. “Marty…”

He left Marty standing alone with dripping hands, left behind quite literally this time. Marty dried his hands on his pants, trying to summon something other than the crushing weight of defeat and rejection - anger, disinterest, anything but the self loathing that shrouded him, filling his head with a roaring that continued even after the dryer clicked off.

Only his pride kept him from chasing after Rust and demanding answers. Only sheer, stubborn will kept him from jumping in his car and driving straight to Rust’s place. He wasn’t even sure what he’d do once he got there. Scream at Rust? Throw accusations? Take that beautiful, maddening face in his hands and kiss him until Rust kissed him back? No… Marty knew from experience that forcing this issue would be a very bad idea.

It didn’t keep him from wanting to push, so he gripped the wheel of his car until his knuckles blanched and went the fuck home.

The deafening roar in his head kept things at bay on the drive home, but in the stillness of his apartment, the sting of Rust’s rejection echoed even worse. He poured himself a whiskey, turned on the television, and tried to drown it out. He tried until he had to lay down on the couch, Rust’s words still looping in his head and the room spinning around him.

_ See you around… see you around… see you around… Marty. _

It seem that Rust was interested in certain, anonymous sexual encounters. Maybe Marty was convenient, maybe he was just looking for something guaranteed. Marty certainly was  _ that _ . Marty winced at the knowledge that Rust must know about his stupid…  _ infatuation _ , for lack of a better word. Hell, Rust had probably known before Marty; had probably catalogued and stored Marty’s various tells.

But if anonymity was what Rust was looking for, then why use Marty’s name there at the end? Why choose Marty at all in the first place? Couldn’t get much less anonymous than the person you worked with every day.

Then Marty recalled how he’d followed Rust that first night. Just two nights ago. He’d been so desperate to figure out where his partner had been disappearing off to.

Maybe the sex wasn’t a distraction for Rust. Maybe it was the distraction for  _ Marty _ ; Rust’s way of distracting Marty from something else…

He tried chasing that thought but the liquor was doing its job, pulling Marty under and making every train of thought slippery and amorphous.

_ See you around… Marty… _

He couldn’t hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does a chapter a day sound?


	3. all in my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty frets in the aftermath of his eventful Friday and Saturday nights, then gets a rude awakening when he returns to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that I have a fully booked day tomorrow so I'm updating tonight. Next one will be Tuesday. <3

Marty woke to a pounding headache and a series of memories that flashed between the red-hot pulse behind his eyes: Rust sliding in next to Marty; Rust’s mouth on Marty’s cock; the sound of Rust jerking himself off, their fingers laced together; Marty’s epiphany that he wanted to do this again, again and again; Rust’s withdrawal once there was nothing to keep them apart; the way Marty could see the walls going up;  _ See you around, Marty _ …

The living room was too bright, the sunlight aggressive in its loudness. Marty rolled over on the couch, buried his face into the cushion, and tried reimagining last night going different. If Rust hadn’t stepped away, Marty would have playfully dried his hands on Rust’s shirt and smiled at him. Rust would have frowned and Marty - braver in his imagination than real life - would have fisted his hands in that tight black tee and pulled Rust close to kiss him.

His mind stumbled over that moment. He couldn’t quite summon what it’d be like to kiss Rust. Not because he was a man but because he was  _ Rust _ . Even Marty’s own brain was throwing up walls between them. Besides, Marty didn’t have any data to work with other than the countless times he’d watched his partner’s mouth. He didn’t think he’d ever even seen Rust kiss Laurie.

But part of Marty liked that he didn’t know what it’d be like. Rust always fucking surprised him. Marty  _ wanted  _ to be surprised the first time he kissed Rust.

And since when had this hypothetical become a  _ when _ instead of an  _ if. _

He knew that he’d find a way; that it was inevitable. He needed it as much as he needed to breathe at this point.

He fell asleep again and didn’t wake up until mid afternoon.

He stumbled to his feet, swallowed a handful of ibuprofen, took a hot shower, and did some laundry. The entire time, he felt oddly at peace with whatever might happen between Rust and him. They’d talk, clear the air, and move on. They’d known each other for seven years and been good friends for most of that time; best friends for the last few. This wasn’t going to break them. Before he knew it, Rust would be back on his side of Marty’s couch, making snarky comments over whatever movie they were watching, and… maybe… during one of his ubiquitous rants, Marty could slide over to Rust’s side and-

He shook his head, trying not to follow that path. He couldn’t afford to get his hopes up.  _ Again _ .

It was an entirely different matter after the sun went down and Marty tried sleeping. His drunken musing from the night before came back to him in the dark and he agonised over them. He kept come back to the coincidence of Rust leading him to that bar-  _ luring  _ him. Rust had known Marty was tailing him, no question, but given that, why the ruse?

Why not just shake him?

Why a gay bar?

Why lead him back to the bathroom?

He was too close to this; too close to Rust and his own desire to see the whole picture clearly. He cursed himself for letting it get this far; for being foolish enough to get attached to someone like Rust. The man had warned him, time and time again, that he was no good for anyone. In his own words, Rust didn’t think people could love.

Except… Marty didn’t believe that, never had. He’d seen the gentle friendship between Rust and Maggie; how Rust had managed somehow to remain on good terms with Maggie through the split. At the time he’d misinterpreted it, but the man certainly wasn’t unfeeling. Marty’d seen the care he’d shown towards Laurie for the nearly two years they’d dated. He’d seen the unguarded way he interacted with Audrey and Macie, able to relate with an ease Marty envied. 

Rust was a good actor, but Marty refused the life Rust lived was anything like the role he’d played as Crash.

Hell, Marty had been on the receiving end of Rust’s rough, unpolished affection time and time again; subtle and sometimes blunt to the point of  _ seeming _ like irritation but undeniable. Seven years- Seven fucking  _ years _ of friendship and partnership. Marty didn’t think he’d ever been closer to anyone other than Maggie, and even then, Rust knew parts of him that Maggie had never even glimpsed; could never have even guessed at.

No. Rust cared.

So what the fuck was going on?

Marty tossed and turned, the clock mocking him every time he glanced its way. The same stupid thoughts looped through his head, each time becoming more and more muddled; each time causing Marty to doubt himself more.

_ 12:23 _

_ 01:52 _

Then suddenly, Marty was back in that bathroom stall. He immediately knew he was dreaming, but refused to acknowledge it. He wanted to be be back here. He wanted it to be real, so he ignored how he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here or the heavy, dull slowness of his body, like he was moving through quicksand.

His back was against the divider that separated his stall from Rust’s. He didn’t know when he’d started considering the two cubicles  _ theirs  _ \- they’d only used them twice - but they were. He could sense Rust behind him - not through any tangible sense, but more like an amplified version of the hyperawareness he always had of his partner; the way he could always tell when Rust walked into a room.

He reached up and back, gripping the top of the partition with one hand. Rough, warm fingers covered his own in a slow, sliding caress.

“Rust…” he whispered. It was part statement, part question, part plea, but mostly because he couldn’t keep himself from uttering the man’s name. It was a placeholder for all the things he actually wanted to say. 

The fingers tightened in response, then retreated. Marty flexed his hand. He wanted that contact back, but there was was rustling, the clink of a belt being unfastened, the metallic burr of a zipper, and then again, that sense of Rust drawing near. Marty could almost feel the heat of the man through the plastic. Marty’s knees threatened to give out and he held on tighter to keep himself upright, even though he wanted to let himself drop to his knees; to return the favour Rust had given him. 

He didn’t even think of it as a zero-sum transaction. He just really fucking wanted suck Rust’s cock. He wanted to give a part of himself to Rust that he’d never given anyone else.

A thought hit him in a full-bodied, feverish, shivering rush and he let go of the divider, swaying on his feet as he fumbled with his belt. He felt something crack open inside of him - a knee-wobbling, choking need not just to give, but to be  _ taken _ .

He shoved his underwear and slacks down to his knees, leaning over and bracing one hand against the opposite side of the stall. With his other, he reached back and -  _  yes… _ \- Rust had understood.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he muttered, fingers closing around Rust’s cock -  _ Rust’s cock _ .

He remembered telling Rust his bar story about hooking up with that college chick and her roommate surprising him from behind with a finger in his ass. It always got laughs from the fellas, but Rust had just raised a skeptical eyebrow.  _ You’re full of shit, Hart _ . And he had been. The roommate hadn’t been involved. Just him, the girl, and her very surprising - very eye-opening - finger. 

What hadn’t been a lie was how it had ruined him for life, but it was something he could never bring himself to ask for; never from Maggie. He hadn’t been able to reconcile the man she seemed to see in him with the one that wanted to have things shoved up his ass. So he’d pushed it to the back of his mind until after the divorce, but even then it’d been a disaster. There had been one drunken date with a girl years after Maggie, where she’d jokingly pulled out a strap-on. He’d come so hard and so fast that he’d never had the courage to call her up for a second date once sobriety had brought all his shame and inhibitions crashing back in.

It didn’t help that it’d happened hot on the heels of his realisation that he wanted Rust, so his desire for his partner and that inebriated night of reckless experimentation became intrinsically intertwined in his brain. He’d been very, deliberately careful not to think about getting bent over just like this because it felt like he’d be showing too much of himself, even in the privacy of his own fantasies. He couldn’t do it. Not when Rust had suddenly become a closed book to Marty over the months.

Because Marty knew it would only make the wanting worse. He knew himself that well, at least. He knew he’d never stop obsessing over it; knew he’d never stop  _ wanting _ it.

Marty felt the head of Rust’s cock press against his hole. He groaned at the pressure, already hard from the anticipation of getting exactly what he wanted.

“ _ Fuck me _ ,” he murmured, placing his other hand on the opposite wall for balance. The cool, pebbled surface felt so real; the slow, aching stretch felt  _ so real _ . “ _ Oh, God… Rust… _ ”

Then Marty jerked, sucking a breath into lungs tight with lust, and blinked open his eyes. 

The clock glowed  _ 04:03 _ . It took him a moment in his disorientation and frustration to realise he was awake. The stall hadn’t been real, but his erection was most definitely real. He rolled onto his stomach, shoved a hand into his underwear, and tried to disappear back into the fantasy of Rust taking him like in his dream. But the barrier between them kept dissolving.

Behind his closed eyes, Rust pressed close and wrapped his arms around Marty, holding him like Marty was something precious; something to be treated with care.  _ Marty _ , Rust whispered against his skin. Marty chest tightened with the imagined sweetness of it. He couldn’t handle it.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” he growled and flopped over onto his back and let go of his insistent hard-on. He stared at the ceiling and cursed his lot in life; cursed Rust; cursed himself.

He finally gave up around five o’clock and got up to get ready for work.

\---

He was sweating bullets by the time he walked into the bullpen, only to find that Rust wasn’t there. He immediately went to the one person that knew nearly all the comings and goings of the building, the department’s secretary- or no, she was the administrative assistant now. He could never keep track of things like that.

“He called in,” Cathy told him without looking up from her computer, nails tapping out a staccato on the keys.

“What do you mean,  _ called in _ ?” he asked. She let out a long-suffering sigh and slowly raised her eyes to meet his, frowning at his tone. Marty knew better than to give Cath attitude so he tried to backtrack. “Sorry, I just-”

“Said he had a long drive to check something out and that he’d be in later if he could.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you know this?”

“Well… you know, Rust.” He gave a one shouldered shrug, trying not to let his disappointment and relief show. “Did he… say where?”

Her face softened. It almost looked like pity. Marty clenched his jaw. He didn’t like being pitied; didn’t like feeling like Rust’s sidekick, even if that’s how their partnership was often seen from the outside - he was the hotheaded Watson to Rust’s brilliantly cold Holmes. But Marty refused to believe either one of them would be where they were now without the other.

“No, darlin’. He didn’t. I’ll let you know if he calls back.” Marty nodded, knowing Rust wouldn’t call back, just as he knew that Rust probably wouldn’t be in at all today. He believed that Rust was working on something, but he knew with just as much conviction that his absence also had to do with Marty.

He got himself a coffee and planted himself at his desk to do paperwork. His mind refused to stay on the task in front of him. All he could think about was Rust. He’d spent months telling himself that everything was fine-  _ would _ be fine, but now he had to consider that maybe he’d been completely off-base.

So Rust was pretty obviously avoiding him. He’d been avoiding Marty for months now. It’d been at least three months since Marty had been over to Rust’s, at least; a little less since they’d hung out outside work or at Marty’s place. Rust had seemed…  _ normal _ when they had. That was what freaked Marty out most; that Rust could just turn things on and off like that. Marty had been slow to notice, even as wrapped up as he was in Rust. His partner gave him  _ just  _ enough to placate him.

He could kick himself that it had taken him months to realise that something was wrong and to start asking questions, and six long months before he lost his patience and resorted to less than savoury methods. This last weekend hadn’t changed anything, but as desperate as he was, Marty had nearly let it derail him from his investigation into what was going on with Rust.

_ Nearly _ .

“Hart, get your ass in here,” Salter called, words harsher than his tone.

Marty pushed away from his desk, grateful for the distraction. He leaned in the doorway to the Major’s office.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Sit the fuck down and close the door behind you.” A disconcerting niggle of apprehension snaked its way up into Marty’s chest, twining its way around his heart. He did as he was told, sitting stiffly in one of the chairs across from Salter.

His superior scrutinised him for a long minute. Marty wanted to squirm under the examination. He cast his mind around, trying to remember if he’d done anything recently that could possibly get him into trouble. As far as he knew, he’d been a model employee, since he was covering a lot of Rust’s paperwork as well as his own duties.

“So… you gonna tell me what Cohle’s up to?”

“Wha-” Marty caught himself before he could give too much away. He settled back into his chair.  _ Wish I could, Leroy _ , he thought. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve gotten calls from Erath, Kaplan, Esther… He’s digging around… Flashing his badge. And those are just the places that had the wherewithal to check with me. God knows how many others let him have free reign without questioning his authority.” Salter planted his elbows on the edge of his desk and leaned towards Marty with an expectant air. “So… What’s he working? You let me in on it and I can back him up; you don’t…”

Salter let the threat hang in the air. Marty breathed in through his nose, suppressing the urge to lash out. His anger was both at Salter for his clumsy blackmail and at Rust for putting him this position to begin with.

“Major, no offense, but you never knew Rust when he was single back in the day… back in Quesada’s day. This is what he does.” He gave a half-hearted shrug, trying to feign disinterest. It was hard to pull off when the shock of Salter’s words had his heart racing. “Diggin’ into cold cases is a bit of a hobby of his. Wait until he starts throwing solves your way. Then you’ll be thankin’ him.”

Salter hummed skeptically.

“Did you know he went down and bothered that poor Reider girl? She’d been catatonic for six years. Five minutes and he had her so worked up they had to sedate her. You call that a  _ hobby _ , huh?” His voice had turned sharp and quiet. “What am I supposed to do with that? How the fuck am I supposed to back him up if he’s gone rogue? Give me something, Marty. Anything.”

“I’m sure he’s working on getting enough to bring it to you, Major.” Marty had to carefully enunciate each word because he could hardly hear himself over the rushing of blood in his ears. He felt cold; in shock. What the fuck was Rust doing, digging into their ‘95 case? And what was worse, he was doing it without Marty. 

He felt protective of it. That was  _ their _ case. It had made them; forged the foundations of what they were. Marty had thought them rock solid, but this… this showed how mistaken he’d been. He had a moment of vertigo thinking about the years of their partnership crumbling underneath his feet. He hadn’t even fucking noticed.

Salter scoffed and threw up his arms in a caricature of resignation.

“Would you even tell me if he was up to something?”

Marty swallowed hard and looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them where they rested on his thighs.

“No, probably not,” he finally said, looking up to meet his CO’s eyes. “Not until it was ready to bring to you. You know how these things work.”

Salter huffed air out his nose with a frown.

“I figured, but I wanted to give you a chance to distance yourself. If Rust goes down, he’s gonna take you with him, you realise.” There was concern in Salter’s voice. He’d never much liked Rust, but had always trusted Marty’s word and his ability to manage his partner. Apparently, that was over. Marty nodded. He understood, but he didn’t have a single reservation about backing Rust up, despite the mounting evidence that he should. Marty’s heart didn’t let go easily. “I’m holding you responsible for him.”

But he couldn’t help but try and plead Rust’s case for him. He knew the man was prickly and insubordinate, but the fact that Salter couldn’t see past his own goddamn ego to the fact that Rust solved more cases than the rest of the detectives under his command added together… It made Marty sad and tired. Or maybe that’s just what he was now- sad and tired and jaded.

For a split second, he thought,  _ heartbroken _ , but he discarded it as too melodramatic.

“Look, I know you don’t have faith in Rust, but just… trust that I do. Okay?” He wish he could force Roy to see what he saw in Rust, but he didn’t have the words and even if he did, it felt futile to even attempt to sway someone like Salter. Marty knew enough to know that most people never changed their minds after the first impression. He knew better than anyone that Rust didn’t give good first impression.

“God help you then.” Salter sneered. Marty let his eyes go hard.

“You do what you have to do,  _ Major _ .”

Salter made a face of disgust and gestured towards the door with a flick of his wrist. He was dismissed.

Marty left the office feeling like he’d just signed the death warrant for his career. He returned to his desk in a daze, sitting down and staring at the computer in front of him like it was something foreign and unknowable.

He looked around the room with new eyes; looked at his tired, aging co-workers who no longer associated with him; looked at the horrible, dated fluorescent sickness of the space. He saw it all with a sudden, painful clarity. How had he ended up here?

This flash of insight didn’t stop with his environment. Marty felt like his eyes were finally open to his life, namely his friendship with Rust. He saw their relationship for what it was and he didn’t like what he saw.  He’d thought they’d had a partnership. He’d thought there’d been reciprocal respect; thought there’d been an understanding between them, something deep and unshakable beyond the lies that had initially bound them together. He’d thought they’d been solid enough to withstand growing pains and upsets.

But now he  _ saw _ .

He was always sitting around waiting for Rust; always available. All because he felt and cared for Rust in a way that the man couldn’t reciprocate. Whatever it was specifically that he felt, he’d allowed his life to start to revolve around his partner. Every date he’d been on over the last few years never went anywhere because it was always Rust he was comparing them to; because he’d drop all plans if Rust needed him. 

Who stood a chance against someone like Rustin Cohle? Who had a chance at catching his attention - of being anything other than a distraction - when his eyes have so clearly been focused on Rust?

Now his job was at risk because Rust had purposefully kept him in the dark. Marty had been fooled. He hadn’t been able to see the forest for the trees, and Rust had used that against him.

The anger built slowly over the course of the day, not at Rust but at himself.  _ What kind of fucking fool goes and fixates on the unattainable? _

He made it to the afternoon and left early. Let Salter think what he wanted. Marty needed to be somewhere that didn’t remind him of Rust. Plus, an idea had started forming in the back of his mind. He pulled out of the precinct lot and made his way to one of the gay bars on the outskirts of Lafayette. He had an experiment in mind.

He was going to get somebody to fuck him.

If it worked, maybe he could get the fuck over whatever this was with Rust. If it didn’t, he could get royally drunk and go back to the drawing board in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me. *beggy face*
> 
> Follow me on Twitter @thehartbelieves


	4. it hurts to leave it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty has a stupid idea that yields results, just not the ones he hopes for.

He left his jacket in the car along with his gun and badge, hoping that people would assume he was a businessman rather than police. He’d still look out of place, but at least he wouldn’t garner suspicion. In the back of his head, a voice that sounded very much like Rust’s told him that Marty would never be able to shake the cop aura, no matter how he dressed.

He ignored the voice. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Rust.

He pushed his way into the bar and headed directly for the bar. If he was going to do this, he needed to be a little drunk.

Or maybe quite a bit drunk. The thought of being intimate with a man - in the way he’d been intimate with women and Rust; the way he  _ wanted _ to be intimate with Rust - would require him to be far more vulnerable than he felt prepared for.

But tonight, he was determined to figure out if it was Rust he was attracted to or if it was men, in general. He suspected it might be the latter. He’d had some very intense encounters in his high school and college years with fellow football players. None of them had felt like this, but he’d not known those guys all that well either. There had to be a happy medium between anonymous, impersonal hand jobs and feeling like he was at risk of being flayed alive every time Rust touched him.

It took forever for the bartender to notice Marty because he was chatting with a suspiciously young-looking man down at the other end of the bar. Rust was right, Marty could never turn it off. He snagged a napkin and worried the corner of it into a point, chastising himself for circling back to his partner again. The bartender seemed to sense his dark mood, because he finally made his way over to Marty.

“Beer?” he asked, catching Marty off guard.

“Uh… yeah. And, uhm… a whiskey.” The bartender was cute in that polished, deliberate way some gay guys were and it took Marty by surprise - the flash of perfect white smile and easy beauty.  _ It doesn’t last,  _ he wanted to warn the young man.  _ Enjoy it while you can _ . God knew, Marty wish he had. He hadn’t been half bad looking in his twenties. “Please.”

“Don’t look so spooked. You look like a beer guy.” The bartender graced him with another smile, flirtatious this time. Marty blushed, susceptible to attention of any kind. “Any particular preference?”

“Bud and… I don’t really care… Jack?”

“Good choice.” He grinned wickedly. “Jack’s my name.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back to prepare the drinks. Marty glanced down at the young man at the other end of the bar who was now watching them- or, more accurately, Marty. He felt his cheeks heat further.

“Thanks, Jack,” Marty mumbled when the guy slid him a tumbler and a bottle of Budweiser beaded with condensation. Marty took a sip. He needed something to do with his hands. His discomfort must have been obvious because Jack leaned in closer. 

“Don’t mind Danny. He’s got a thing for Daddies,” Jack whispered conspiratorial. Marty nearly choked on his whiskey, but managed to swallow before coughing into his fist.

“I’m sorry-  _ What? _ ” Jack laughed and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. Both were muscled and shown off to great advantage by a tight white tee. Marty caught a glimpse of his wide-eyed face in the mirror behind he bar. “What’s…?”

“This your first time in a gay bar?” he teased, then sobered at Marty’s shocked silence, blushing a little in return. “You know… middle-aged men that’ll tell you what to do in bed and buy you stuff when out on dates… bossy in a good way where they take care of you? C’mon. A Daddy.”

Marty took another sip of his drink, mulling this over. It made a certain sort of sense, he supposed. The joke, he supposed, was that he preferred being told what to do. Always had. It was clear in his dating history - Maggie, Lisa… Rust… - that he wasn’t attracted to shrinking violets. But this kid didn’t need to know that.

“Guess it strikes me as strange, as I actually am a father,” he said with a crooked smile. He meant for it to lighten the mood, but it just felt strange to mention the fact in a place like this.

“I can respect that,” Jack mused, looking Marty up and down. Marty didn’t miss the way that the man looked at his ring finger. “But you’re not straight.”

“You know what?” Marty laughed, stymied.  _ Straight? Yes? But I really want to fuck my best friend and maybe more... _ “Not sure what I am. Kinda why I’m here tonight.”

Jack rocked back to prop his elbows on the shelf behind the bar.

“A Daddy  _ and _ curious,” he said in an obvious sotto voce aside to Danny. “He’s all yours.”

He smiled more naturally at Marty and gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Sorry, projects aren’t my thing. Danny, on the other hand, can’t ever seem to help himself.” Danny had his drink in his hand and was headed Marty’s direction. Jack winked lasciviously. “You’re  _ just  _ his type.”

“Wait… I didn’t mean…” And then Danny was there.

“Hi,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice and held out his hand. He was shorter than Marty and lean, in that way that some young men have that leant them a delicate strength. Marty found he liked it. “Daniel. Only Jack calls me Danny, like I’m still his kid brother.”

Marty shook the offered hand and tried smiling. The guy was cute. He still had the faintest traces of baby fat in his cheeks, making him look younger than he probably actually was. His hair was messy and blond, like he spent a lot of time outside. His tan backed this up. His eyes were wide and brown and warm. His hand lingered in Marty’s and even that slight intimacy had Marty’s heart ratcheting up its tempo.

In short: the very opposite of Rust, who was cool overcast skies, cutting angles, double-edged words, and so much distance that even together, sometimes Marty felt like Rust was elsewhere.

“Marty, or Martin, if you rather.”

“Marty,” Daniel repeated, testing out the name. It didn’t make Marty weak in the knees like when Rust said it, but that was probably a good thing. Marty didn’t need another messy attachment. “Do you want to have a drink with me?”

“Let me guess, I should buy you a drink?” Marty teased. Daniel laughed easily, tipping his head back without hesitation. It felt good. He’d only made Rust laugh a handful of times that he could remember and most of those times had been Rust laughing  _ at  _ Marty.

Then Marty frowned at himself. No, he was being unkind. He made Rust laugh. It was just that Rust’s laughter was restrained and understated most of the time: a quirk of his mouth, a quick downcast glance, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

And… Marty was thinking about Rust again.  _ Goddammit. _

“Now you’re getting it,” Daniel quipped, tucking his chin and looking up at Marty through his fine eyelashes, then he lowered his voice and added, “Daddy.”

Heat spread under Marty’s skin, from head to toes. Okay, so maybe he understood the appeal.

“Christ, you’ve got some cheek.” He pulled out his wallet. “What’re you drinking?”

“PBR.” Marty rolled his eyes at collegiate taste, but tapped the rim of Daniel’s can when he caught Jack’s eye and held up a finger. 

“Got someone else buying and you still go for the pisswater?” He’d expected the kid to upgrade to something more expensive, and found himself respecting Daniel for not taking advantage. Given the kid’s…  _ attractions _ , Marty’d expected him to try to take advantage.

“Hey, just because I like Daddies, don’t mean I’m  _ looking  _ for one.” Daniel bumped his shoulder against Marty’s. “Besides… Gotta ease you into it first.”

Marty scoffed but smiled. He liked this - this easy back and forth. He focused on Danny’s guileless eyes and didn’t let himself think about Rust; about how much he missed their own banter.

After he paid, they picked up their drinks and went to a booth in the corner. The place wasn’t busy, but Marty wanted some privacy, just to get to know Daniel a little. It wasn’t like he could just drag the kid to the bathroom and kiss him right away. Or… could he? He didn’t know the protocol and he couldn’t bring himself to ask, not after all that Daddy shit. He felt like he had to be at least a little in charge of this situation.

“So Daniel… what do you do for a livin’?” Marty’s companion barked a laugh and gave him a curious look.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do. Is that so odd?”

“Well… yeah, actually.” Marty must have looked offended because Daniel spoke on quickly. “It’s… charming… old school.”

Marty grinned at that, more than a little flattered, and held up his bottle in a toast.

“To old school.” He liked the sound of that. Daniel tapped his can against the neck of Marty’s bottle and they both swigged a drink. “Now, I believe I asked you a question.”

“I’m a student.” Marty groaned. He knew the kid had been young; certainly too young for him. Daniel held up his hands defensively. “Now, wait a second before you judge. I’m a graduate student at SUNO. Just in town visiting friends and family. Putting in time, you know?”

“And picking up men far too old for you,” Marty added in a self-deprecating tone.

“Hey, I’m almost thirty and a boy’s gotta have some fun.” Daniel winked at him. Marty decided right then that he liked this young man. He was easy to talk to and didn’t make Marty nervous in the way he was used to when he was trying to chat up a woman. “And I think it was  _ you _ that picked me up.”

“Think Jack had more to do with it, but I’ll take the credit if you’re offerin’,” Marty said, lowering his voice. He slid his hand over and took Daniel’s hand in his. It was so easy; low-stakes. Daniel raised his eyebrows but didn’t withdraw. “Tell me more about what you’re studying.”

Even in the dim light of the bar, Marty could see the flush that spread over the kid’s cheeks. He had freckles and Marty decided that if he got the chance, he was going to kiss each of the before kissing Daniel.

Daniel scooted closer to him on the semi-circle bench and started talking about what he was studying. Marty didn’t quite understand, but Daniel was animated and passionate while he talked, gesturing with both hands. Daniel’s friend - brother? - Jack, brought over another round of drinks without prompting. Marty was beginning to feel it, happy and loose limbed.

Daniel was optimistic, effervescent, and forward-thinking. He loved what he was doing with his life and it showed in every word and gesticulation. Marty remembered feeling like that. He was the polar opposite of Rust - who was sullen and still and dark and razor focused - but Daniel still somehow reminded Marty of his partner when he was in the middle of a nihilistic rant.

He snagged Daniel’s hand again, cutting him off mid sentence and causing his face to waver into uncertainty.

“Sorry, I get carried awa-” He was already looking slightly deflated and abashed. That wasn’t what Marty wanted.

“I’d really like to kiss you.” A slow, surprised smile spread on Daniel’s face. He was innocence and hope and-  _ fuck _ , if that wasn’t what Marty needed right now. He hooked his arm around Daniel’s slim waist and pulled him closer. “That okay?”

Daniel swallowed hard, his smile wavering just enough to be endearing, and nodded. His obvious nervousness made Marty bold. He ran his fingers of his unoccupied hand along Daniel’s jaw and back into his fine, dirty blond hair. He suspected that Daniel was used to the men he was attracted to -  _ Daddies _ … Marty still squirmed at that label - taking what they wanted. But Marty was uncomfortable with that. He liked to make sure the other person was just as into it as he was, so he took his time and was gentle. He’d always preferred starting out like this, anyway. He liked the build up almost as much as the destination.

His only mistake was closing his eyes as he leaned in to press his lips to Daniel’s. Behind his eyelids, it wasn’t Daniel who he was carefully pressing his lips against.

It was Rust.

Which was ridiculous, because Marty had never kissed Rust so how would he fucking know?

He tried to focus on Daniel - his softness, the way he gave ground so easily, the tentative hands slipping between Marty’s dress shirt and undershirt. Daniel was definitely not Rust. Even without experiencing any of this with his partner, Marty knew it’d be a whole different experience. He knew Rust that much, at least. The main thing was that Daniel was  _ here _ . Marty knew he could drag him to bathroom and get a blowjob, or even take him home and fuck him.

God, he wanted to fuck him. So that was one question answered.

But even has he kissed Daniel, hands holding the young man tight against him and his body urging him on, Marty knew it wasn’t going to happen. It felt good. It would be fun. But he knew what regret felt like when it was waiting for him in the wings, and he could feel that spectre now.

He pulled back slowly, gentling the kisses until they were looking each other in the eye.

“So…” Daniel said breathlessly, lips pink and eyes hooded. “Still curious?”

“Not at all.” Marty winced at his own callousness. “I mean… I know I’m attracted to you, but-”

“There’s someone else.”

“How-?”

“You’re not my first heartbroken man looking for a rebound,” Daniel said softly, shifting so there was a little space between them. “I usually don’t mind, but… I get the feeling you like getting attached and I’m not looking for that. Best do us both a favour and keep this friendly, yeah?”

“I’m not-” He was going to say  _ heartbroken _ , but that’s exactly how he felt; hurt and heartbroken and desperately lonely. He made a frustrated noise. He couldn’t even deny the latter statement. Marty liked romance; he liked dating; he liked the little domestic things in a relationship. Marty liked attachment, despite the way his previous serious attachment, his marriage, had chaffed him.

He hated that he’d  _ had  _ that with Rust without realising it; not until he’d lost it.

“He straight?” Daniel asked, propping his chin in his palm and looking so attentive that Marty wanted to hug him.

“No- I- well, I don’t know. We’ve done-” Daniel’s eyebrows immediately shot up and Marty stopped himself, clearing his throat. That bit of information was his and he wasn’t willing to share. “He’s a bit of an enigma, my Rust.”

He made a face. He’d meant to say,  _ my partner _ . Well, tonight was full of irritating revelations, wasn’t it?

“Look, no offense, kid, but I don’t really want to talk about it. That’s why I came here; to not talk about it.” He felt the dark cloud of a bad mood threatening.

“Well, how about this?” Daniel waved at his friend and held up four fingers. “How about we get drunk? If you feel like it, we can go back to your place and hang out or… whatever… no strings attached. If you don’t, we can just sit here and talk while we get sloshed. How’s that sound?”

“You sure? I don’t wanna hold you back just because I’m…”  _ A mess. A loser. _ Marty made a vague gesture in the air as a placeholder for whatever choice descriptor Daniel wanted to think.

“I’m just here waiting for Jack to get done with his shift. You’re a welcome distraction.” Daniel let his eyes trail suggestively down Marty. Marty blushed.

“You flirt.”

Jack walked over and slid four shot glasses onto the stained wood of the table and poured generous shots of a clear alcohol.

“Want me to leave the bottle?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Daniel shot back. Jack set the bottle down - Bacardi 151, Marty realised - then reached over and playfully shoved at Daniel’s head.

“You jackass. You owe me.”

“No, I don’t,” Daniel hollered after him as Jack went back to work. Daniel scooted two of the glasses towards Marty. “Down the hatch.”

He quaffed them back, one right after the other. Just watching was enough for Marty’s eyes to water. When was the last time he’d done shots like this? A bachelor party almost a decade ago? Or maybe in the aftermath of his divorce - Rust and him had done a lot of drinking around then. But he sighed and swallowed one of the drinks. It burned and stung, and then warmth radiated out from his chest.

_ Like riding a bike _ , he thought.

He gave Daniel a smug smile, feeling like he’d met a dare and got a wicked grin in return. Spurred on, he did the other shot.

“God, I love a man that’s game,” Daniel said too loudly, gripping his shoulder. Marty wanted to be that man. He’d always wished he was more adventurous, but the only adventures he ever seemed to have were ones that other people lead him into, namely Rust - really,  _ only _ Rust - because Marty could never seem to cut loose without feeling like someone had his back.

“So, Martin…” Daniel poured four more shots, still somehow sharp and focused. Marty didn’t have a good feeling about this, but he supposed he might as well. Worst that could happen was he called in tomorrow with a hangover. He took a perverse pleasure thinking about Rust wondering where he was. “I told you all about me. What about you?”

“What do you want to know?” He picked up one of the shot glasses and eyed it warily. Daniel picked one up too, tapped them together hard enough that liquor sloshed over onto Marty’s fingers. He smiled slow and broad.

“Everything.”

It didn’t take long before Marty stopped being careful with his words - he talked about becoming a cop and then a detective, about being married, about his kids, and about Rust… a lot about Rust. Soon after that, he stopped being able to keep track of what was coming out of his mouth. Next thing he knew, he was outside with a laughing Daniel under one arm, holding him up.

“Okay… easy there, Daddy. You said beige four-door?” Daniel turned towards him and his hand slipped into Marty’s front pocket. Marty hunched over and nuzzled into Daniel’s neck. He wanted something to happen but it couldn’t… and he couldn’t exactly remember why. He wanted to  _ touch _ someone;  _ anyone _ , at this point. The alcohol was making that blatantly clear. “Not tryna get fresh, old man. Just getting your keys. Okay, here we are.”

Marty tipped back, but Daniel was there with his hand on the top of Marty’s head. Then his fingers were digging into his other pocket, making Marty aware that even in his highly inebriated state, he was hard. Marty couldn’t help it. The incidental graze of Daniel’s fingers against his cock was enough to make Marty huff out a breath. He was starved for intimacy; starved for someone to want him openly and without guile. He also really wanted to fucking get laid in a way that involved human connection - skin on skin, kissing, laughter, talk… 

“Jesus… Gotta say, Marty. I’m jealous and a little pissed off at this Rust you’re hung up on.” He pulled something out of Marty’s pocket - his cellphone. “What a waste…”

He flipped open the cell and tapped away for a minute, while Marty’s world stopped spinning enough for him to realise he was sprawled across the back seat of his car. Danny was a good kid, Marty decided. He should tell him.

“Thanks, I guess,” Daniel laughed. “Being called  _ kiddo _ ’s a bit of a mood killer though.”

He pressed the phone into Marty’s hand, still open.

“I programmed my number in, just in case you want to give me a ring. You know… if you ever get over this Rust fella and want a casual rebound. I’m going back into the bar. Jack’s my ride, but I’ll come check on you, ‘kay? When you sober up a bit, we’ll get you a cab or I’ll bribe Jack into giving you a lift.”

Marty vaguely recalled repeating earlier that he had no one to call, which was pathetic and sad, and not strictly true. He nodded, turning his face into the backrest.

“Okay, big guy. Scoot so I can lock you in. Don’t want the wrong kinda person taking advantage.” Daniel prodded at Marty’s legs. “You have no idea how much I wish I could take advantage.”

“‘m a cop,” Marty mumbled, levering himself back on the bench seat until his head hit the opposite door. He didn’t know why that bit of information was pertinent but in the moment, it seemed important. Daniel chuckled.

“I’m well aware. I really do have a fuckin’ type. Don’t tell Jack,” he rambled as he helped rearrange Marty’s legs.

“Won’t tell.”

“You’re a good guy too, Marty,” Daniel whispered, voice suddenly much closer. Marty cracked his eyes open just before Daniel kissed him chastely. “You shouldn’t give yourself such a hard time. Your Rust doesn’t realise what he’s missing. His loss.”

“Thanks…” Marty tried saying but the word came out garbled.  _ But he did _ , Marty thought. Rust knew exactly what he was missing. He knew Marty better than anyone.

And he still didn’t want Marty. Marty’s throat clenched shut on the sudden urge to cry.

“Your keys and phone are right here.” He pressed them both into Marty’s right hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

Then there was a slam and change in air pressure, and Daniel was gone. Marty wished Danny hadn’t left. He wished he hadn’t gotten so drunk. He wished he hadn’t gone out tonight. He wished… 

He lifted his phone close to his face so he could try to focus on the tiny screen. All he managed to do was drop his keys directly onto his face.

“ _ Ow _ .”

But he didn’t need to see to dial. He felt for the  _ 1 _ button blindly and held it down. Speed dial did the rest. It took both his hands to hold the phone steady to his ear. The ringtone was tinny and distant. Marty’s attention drifted. He thought he might be falling asleep or possibly passing out.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to get Rust anyway. But maybe Marty could finally say what he needed to his voicemail, since he couldn’t seem to get it out to Rust in person.

“ _ Marty _ .” It was Rust.  _ Rust _ . And even in the man’s familiar flat tone, Marty’s name sounded better than on anyone else’s tongue.

“Rust…” Marty breathed, feeling like the air had been knocked out of him. He’d answered.

_ “Are you drunk?” _

“Yes, very. ‘M very drunk.” Rust sighed loud enough for the cell to pick up the exhalation.

_ “Where’re you?” _ Something rustled and the volume of Rust’s voice changed. It sounded like he’d tucked the phone against his shoulder.  _ “I’ll come get you.” _

“You’ll laugh…” He didn’t feel it now, but he knew he’d be embarrassed in the morning.

_ “Just fuckin’ tell me or I’m hanging up.” _

“I’m… You know that bar on the far west side of town? Off Grand?” There was a long pause and Marty drifted despite himself. He couldn’t tell if Rust was silently judging him or if the call had dropped. He didn’t care. He felt reckless and bold. He was still hard in his khakis and he suddenly wanted to tell Rust about it. “‘M here because of you, you know… because I want… but… he’s not you…”

_ “Gimme fifteen. I’ll take you home,”  _ Rust said in a clipped tone, then hung up. Marty stared at the too-bright screen and considered calling Rust back. He had shit to say and suddenly had the bravery to blurt it out.

His thumb hovered over the redial option, but then he backed out and opened his photos instead. There wasn’t much on the phone: pictures of Audrey and Macie, but then there where the handful of candids he’d sneaked of Rust.

He scrolled through them, eyes struggling to focus:

Rust hunched over his desk with a look of concentration on his face.

Rust smoking on Marty’s apartment balcony, a darker black smudge against the night sky, the glowing cherry of the cigarette lighting the severe planes of his face from below.

Rust conked out on Marty’s couch, his hand splayed on his stomach, his other arm thrown up over his head.

Marty paused before he moved onto the last picture; the oldest, taken around the time Marty admitted he felt something for his partner. He didn’t even need to pull the picture up. He had it memorised - every line and shadow. 

He pressed the down button: Rust, with a rare smile pulling the corners of his lips up, face flushed from alcohol and laughter, eyes all the bluer from the contrast as he looked up at Marty through his lashes. 

Marty had just gotten the phone when they’d spent this day together. Every photo before this one had been a blurry mess, but this one had turned out. A second sooner or later and he’d have gotten Rust’s usual, neutral blankness or default irritation. But he’d made Rust laugh and taken his chance. He didn’t even remember what he’d said to elicit that expression, but Marty would never forget that moment… that day… that stomach clenching realisation that Rust was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Marty rested the open phone on his chest and closed his eyes, thinking about each treasured moment where he’d surprised Rust enough to laugh - usually  _ at _ Marty, but now, in his drunken haze, he counted those as wins.

There was a sharp rap against the glass above his head and Marty awoke with a jerk.

“What’re smiling about, asshole?” Rust said, voice muted through the door. Marty propped himself up against the door and fumbled with the lock before opening the door, sending himself tumbling out of the car. Rust caught him with a pained grunt. Marty’s phone and keys fell to the gravel. “ _ Shit _ . Goddammit, Marty.”

Rust shoved Marty back into the backseat and then bent to retrieve the dropped items. Marty flopped to face the other way on the seat, feeling boneless, and a little like pulling Rust in with him.

“And what  _ the fuck _ are ya doin’ at a gay bar on a Monday ni-” Rust froze halfway up from his crouch, eyes fixed on the screen of Marty’s phone. It was barely a pause and then Rust was standing, snapping the phone shut. He didn’t finish his sentence.

He walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Marty knew he was irritated, approaching angry, so he clumsily pushed himself upright and shifted behind Rust, throwing his arms around Rust from behind, essentially hugging him. He rested his chin on the top of the seat, near Rust’s shoulder.

“What would I do without you, huh?” Marty asked even as Rust tried prying Marty’s arms away, but Marty was even more stubborn in his drunken state. Rust gave up and rested his arms folded over Marty’s.

“You’ve told me countless times, Marty. Don’t need a refresher,” Rust said grumpily. Marty’s mind stumbled over the words. He had? 

“What do you-” Marty began, lost, but Rust cut him off with iron in his voice.

“Responsible for all the bad shit that’s ever happened in your-”

_ Oh shit- _

“Fuckin’- Rust… No…” He dragged his hand up to touch the left side of Rust’s neck and face, trying to turn the man to face him Rust stiffened and gripped the steering wheel. How many times had he rolled his eyes and muttered  _ This is all your fault, you know _ at Rust? He’d thought it’d been clear that he’d been joking or at the very least, exaggerating. He’d never actually  _ meant  _ it. “You know I was teasin’, right? There was a time- but… fuck, I’d be lost without you.”

Marty didn’t know how to repair the damage he’d done. Even if Rust believed that he’d been teasing, what would make him believe the truth? Marty wanted to tell Rust he was an idiot if he couldn’t see through Marty’s bullshit; if he couldn’t take the playful teasing and see it for what it was. But before any of that had a chance to make it to Marty’s lips, Rust pried once again at Marty’s arms.

“Put your seatbelt on.” Rust enunciated each word sharply and they did their job; they hurt enough to sober Marty up.

All the strength went out of him. He collapsed back into his seat. It was difficult to even get the belt fastened. His fingers didn’t want to work and he had a hard time seeing.

He was crying.

_ Jesus, you pathetic piece of shit _ .

Rust didn’t say anything as he chauffeured Marty home and Marty didn’t dare saying anything else lest he mispeak or get slapped down again. He was left alone with the whirlwind of his emotions that he couldn’t parse - shame and self-loathing and embarrassment and regret… 

Had he really misunderstood their friendship so badly? Was this why Rust hadn’t come to him after splitting with Laurie? Marty knew he tended to be blind to what was going on with the people in his life, but he’d thought Rust the exception. That he could miss something like this… 

He leaned forward, the seat belt digging into his shoulder, and planted his face in his hands. He felt sick and didn’t want Rust to see him like this. Rust had seen him cry before, after the divorce, but this felt different. These tears were over Rust.

When Rust parked the car and turned it off, he didn’t move to get out. It was like he was waiting for something or working himself up to say something. If so, Marty knew it’d be devastating. Marty also knew he’d likely deserve it, but he couldn’t face it right now. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, wishing he were a bit more sober for the oncoming confrontation.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. The tears came harder, but at least they were silent. “You’re my best friend, Rust, and I’m… I’m so fuckin’ sorry if I ever made you feel like anything less.”

Rust unbuckled his belt and got out of the car without acknowledging Marty’s words. Dread welled up inside Marty’s chest, compressing his lungs. He was going to be ill. The tang of bile bit at the back of his tongue.

But then Rust was kneeling next to him with the door open. His cool hand cupping the back of Marty’s neck.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside,” he muttered softly.

He took care of everything - unfastening Marty’s belt, helping guide him out of the car, getting them both safely up the stairs to Marty’s apartment. Alcohol and emotion were working hard to shut down Marty’s system. Rust’s closeness was shutting down whatever reason he’d managed to cling to.

When Rust finally guided Marty into the bedroom, Marty stopped them and turned. He touched Rust’s chest. Marty couldn’t bring himself to look at Rust so he stared at the back of his hand. It didn’t even feel attached to the rest of his body so he flexed it as a test, fingers digging into Rust’s shirt and the flesh underneath it.

“Stay,” he whispered, closing his eyes, but he still felt Rust’s head shake. “Please… I’ll do- I’ll beg if I have to… Stay. I-  _ I miss you _ .”

The last came out as a strangled hiss.

Marty was prepared to fight for this; prepared to push his luck. He pried his eyes open and looked into Rust’s. It took a monumental effort. His body and mind were pulling him down, making every second of focus a struggle.

“You’re drunk. You won’t-” Marty leaned into Rust. It was unintentional. He was just desperately tired and Rust always exerted a gravitational pull on him, but he was suddenly close. Marty wanted to kiss him.

“Rust…” He clutched at Rust’s shoulder, which ended up being more his neck. He could feel Rust’s pulse under his palm. He wanted to taste the beat of it against his tongue.

He wanted to so badly to kiss Rust.

“Don’t- I’ll stay, but just…” Rust said hoarsely, then swallowed. Marty had the sudden urge to squeeze; to make Rust do what he wanted. He almost laughed at the thought that he could make Rust do anything. “Don’t.”

Marty let go of him so abruptly that they both stumbled back. The only difference was that Marty was very drunk, so his stumble turned into more of a fall. The back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sprawled back onto the bed. He laughed at himself.

_ You fool _ .

“As if I could ever make you do anything you didn’t already want,” he chuckled. Rust sighed loudly and bent down to yank Marty’s shoes off. Marty stared at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. Even if he could make Rust want him back, he wouldn’t want that. That wouldn’t be Rust. “Which is my problem, isn’t it? Wanting you to want what you don’t want…”

“You’re even less eloquent when drunk,” Rust groused, throwing the shoes into the corner. Marty tipped his head down to look at him, smiling.

“Yeah, but y’knew that already.”

“Better than anyone, unfortunately.” Rust nudged Marty’s knee. “Stop speakin’ in riddles and get under the covers. Bedtime.”

Marty rolled over on his side and pulled himself further up the bed. It was more trouble than it was worth to try and get underneath the comforter.

“M’good here,” he mumbled. He still wanted to fight; still wanted Rust to stay. But he was losing his battle with unconsciousness. With the last of his willpower, he reached back and patted the bed behind him. The mattress shifted and gentle fingers took ahold of his. A warm hand smoothed over the top of his head.

Marty sighed, sure that he was dreaming, and tried to roll onto his back. There was something keeping him there; something firm wedged up against his back; something holding and stroking the back of his hand.

_ Rust _ , he thought, turning his head into his pillow. He didn’t care if he was asleep. He wanted this.  _ Staystaystay _ .


	5. the world's on fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the harsh light of day, Marty has to face the consequences of his actions. Rust doesn't make it easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW//  
> The Charmaine Boudreaux aka Marshland Medea case is mentioned in this chapter, with associated content.

The morning didn’t come kindly. 

Marty groaned as soon as he surfaced from the blackness of sleep. He’d dreamed of being held: a warm body curled up against his back, a hand pressed flat over his heart, breath tickling the hair at the nape of his neck. It’d been comforting and he wasn’t prepared to leave the dream behind.

Marty kept his eyes shut for a few moments, trying to hold onto the images and sensations, but they slipped through the fingers of his mind like sand. Reality reasserted itself, wiping out any lingering sense of peace. Disappointment replaced contentment. Marty sighed and blinked at the harsh morning light spilling in through his blinds. It was like a pickaxe to the brain.

Well, what did he expect, drinking like a college kid?

And then the night slowly came back to him: Daniel and drinks and more drinks, then Rust and his harsh words, Marty’s foolish attempts of stepping closer given the chance, asking Rust to stay and Rust not staying… 

He groaned again, head throbbing, and rolled onto his back- Or rather, tried rolling onto his back. There were pillows propped to keep him on his side. He shoved at them, both irritated and appreciative of the gesture. It irrationally pissed him off how Rust could be so passive aggressively  _ decent _ at times. 

Then his hand brushed over the opposite side of the bed and he paused. It was warm.

He struggled to his elbows and looked around, eyes feeling both gummy and grainy. There was no Rust but there were signs that he’d been there. Marty’s phone and keys were on the bedside table. There was a glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and he’d even plugged the cell in, which was far more considerate than Marty felt he deserved given his behaviour last night.

Marty popped a half dozen pills into his mouth and drained the glass, then turned to more important matters. He rolled onto his stomach and burrowed his face into the empty side of the bed, still warm and smelling of Rust.

He’d stayed. Even if he’d left before Marty woke up, Rust had  _ stayed _ . He’d slept next to Marty because Marty had asked or because he wanted to watch over him or… for some other reason that Marty’s miserable brain couldn’t fathom right now. He didn’t care. Rust had stayed and Marty couldn’t keep himself from smiling into his pillow.

Marty even understood why Rust hadn’t waited for Marty to wake up. Things between them were different now; awkward. Marty felt bad about that. But it didn’t stop him from pulling the pillow that smelled most strongly of Rust to his face and slipping a hand into his pants. He felt like shit, but his body didn’t seem to care, already half hard from the thought of Rust having spent the night so close to him. 

They’d shared a bed… 

He knew they needed to talk soon before the things unsaid became too big to tackle; before Marty’s stupid obsession had time to lodge itself where it could do real damage. He knew all of this, and still he jerked off to the odd vulnerability Rust had shown last night.

_ The way Rust had laid his arms over Marty’s when he’d hugged him from behind in the car; a sort of defeated embrace. _

_ The bitter sadness in his voice that gave way to resigned affection at Marty’s helplessness. _

_ Marty’s hand around Rust’s throat, the muscle shifting; the simple fact he’d been allowed to keep his hand there. _

_ The brusque, clinical touches as Rust got him into bed and then… Rust’s fingers tracing the back of Marty’s hand and touching his hair as he fell asleep.  _

Marty inhaled Rust’s scent and came hard with a grunt, heart racing. When he flopped onto his back, he felt no shame, only curiosity. If it was this good when Marty was given so little, what would it be like if Rust were to ever truly touch him?

What would it be like if Rust were to ever truly take him to bed?

Marty thought it might just kill him.

\---

Marty was late to work, still hungover and because, quite frankly, he was wary of facing Rust after last night. The few moments of clarity he’d had after his orgasm had melted away into confusion all too quickly. Despite the multitude of positive signs Rust had given him last night, he couldn’t stop obsessing about Rust thinking that Marty somehow blamed him for the things that had gone wrong in his life.

Marty had a half formed plan about keeping his head down for the rest of the week and then somehow convincing Rust to hang out this weeked. This time he wouldn’t back down or let Rust brush him aside. This was  _ important _ . Even if the answer was that Rust didn’t feel or want Marty in the same way, at least he’d have his answer. Even if Rust didn’t reciprocate, he was determined to make it clear to his partner just how much he meant to Marty.

He braced himself before walking into the precinct. He expected silence, at best; angry snark, at the worst. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the hell Rust could make his existence if he so chose. So when he walked into the bullpen and sat down across from his partner, only to have Rust push a mug of coffee towards him without looking up from his ledger, it was a blessed relief.

“It’s cold by now,” Rust muttered in a flat tone.

“Th- thanks.” Marty took a sip of the lukewarm beverage. It wasn’t quite cold yet, which meant that Rust had either been late too or he’d known Marty was going to be late. Either way, Marty was touched. It was fixed just as Marty liked it: unsweetened and milky, which made him doubly touched. This had to be a good sign, right? Marty put a mental tick in the  _ We’re gonna be okay _ column in his head. “It’s perfect.”

Rust snorted, then tossed a file onto Marty’s desk.

“We’ve got a case.” Marty flipped the folder open and immediately had to put his coffee down.

“Christ, Rust. Coulda warned a guy.” There were pictures of babies - dead babies - right at the top of the stack of papers. His tender stomach churned. Marty turned them over quickly to read the reports. Words were easier to digest than photos.

“Always forget how little nerve you have.” Marty’s eyes flicked up to look at Rust. Rust knew how sensitive Marty was to this sort of thing. The man never forgot anything. He knew it was a dig at him, but he wasn’t sure if it was their usual acerbic banter or if Rust was being more specific.

Of course it was more specific. This was  _ Rust _ . Marty frowned at the top of his partner’s head. The words stung. They weren’t fair. Marty had been more honest with Rust last night than he’d ever thought he’d dare. Even drunk, he’d- And then it slowly dawned on him: Rust didn’t count last night as Marty opening up because he  _ had _ been drunk.

Marty made another mental check. This time under  _ We’re not gonna be okay _ .

“Yeah… well, not all of us get off on looking at DBs like you,” he said bitterly, immediately regretting it. It was too harsh; too personal.  _ Fuck _ . He didn’t know how to do this; didn’t know how to be around Rust when all he could think about was dragging his partner somewhere and forcing him to talk about what was going on… 

Preferably with kissing. Lots of kissing. There were so many things Marty could show Rust with touch and  _ action _ that he didn’t have the words to communicate. 

Rust didn’t respond, but his thinned lips told Marty all he need to know. His remark had done its damage.

“I’m-” he started to apologise.

“Pretty obvious the mother’s doing it. Charmaine Boudreaux. Brass already had her picked up, just need the confession. That’s where we come in. But the media’s gotten ahold of the story.” 

Marty’s  _ I’m sorry _ , died on his lips as the implication of what Rust had said sunk in.

“Shit,” he said instead. Media attention meant there’d be eyes on them; it meant pressure. Marty feared any additional tension might cause things to explode between Rust and him, or even worse, dissolve.

Than again, maybe that was what needed to happen. Maybe an argument would air shit out; maybe some distance would give them both perspective. Marty didn’t know anymore. At this point, any change would be better than this hot-and-cold holding pattern of uncertainty.

“Calling her the ‘Marshland Medea’,” Rust said with a scoff. He tossed a newspaper on top of the casefile. A ravaged, sunken face stared up at him with vacant, lost eyes. “M’sure some asshole’s patting himself on the back over that one. Not even clever, just catchy.”

It was one of those grocery store tabloids, but Marty knew the legitimate press would follow soon enough. He skimmed over the byline: _ LOUISIANA WOMAN TURNS MOTHERHOOD INTO GREEK TRAGEDY.  _ He sneered at the insensitivity of this kind of journalism. God, sometimes he really fucking hated this job. He turned the paper over so that an ad for a rent-to-own furniture store showed instead. He didn’t have any desire to read past that first line.

“So what’s our play?”

“Figured the usual.” Rust’s eyes rose slowly to meet his and a shiver travelled down Marty’s spine, his mouth going dry. He tried not to look at Rust’s mouth. This was  _ not _ the time. “You do what you’re good at, get all huffy and outraged… storm out when I give you the signal. I’ll get the confession.”

Marty wanted to laugh. Yes, it was their usual interrogation dynamic, but the irony of it just now struck him. Of the two of them, it wasn’t Rust that was the empathetic, understanding one. Sometimes - but only sometimes - Marty truly wondered if Rust cared at all. Now was one of those times. He studied Rust’s hooded blue eyes and wanted to blurt out,  _ Do you even fucking care? _

_ Do you care about me? _

He’d walked into work hoping to avoid a confrontation, but now all he wanted was to force the matter. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. They could have it out later, but first they needed to focus on this case.

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow your lead.” Rust’s eyebrow twitched minutely; something that only Marty would notice. Marty’d surprised him. He tried not to feel smug about that. He couldn’t help but smile at his partner.  _ Yeah, I got your number, asshole. _ “Wanna do this now or let her stew a little more?”

It didn’t escape him how much that applied to his own situation and he was sure Rust made the connection too by the way Rust snapped his ledger shut.

“Let’s get this over with.” Rust was up and walking away before Marty could even respond. “I’ll have her brought over from holding.”

So much for focusing on the case.

Marty mentally kicked himself for being a pugnacious bastard. Rust deserved better than that. He took another sip of his coffee. It actually was cold now, but he stubbornly drank the entire mug while reading the rest of the casefile. Because it was clear now that the coffee had been meant as a peace offering that Marty’d been too wrapped up in his own bullshit to recognise.

He resolved to do better. He  _ had  _ to do better.

\---

Rust, on the other hand, didn’t seem ready to let their small squabble go. He was cold and dismissive of Marty while they started in on Charmaine. When Rust reached across the table and so easily took Charmaine’s hand, it twisted Marty’s gut up something fierce; how easy it was for Rust to connect with someone who deserved his contempt when recently, he touched Marty like it physically pained him to do so. It was too much for Marty’s knotted emotions and he couldn’t stop himself from making a smart ass remark.

Rust looked at him and flicked his eyes towards the door: his signal to leave. Marty threw his hands up and stormed out, hoping Rust knew he was playing his role rather than being actually irritated. Marty was the opposite of irritated; he was scared. He stood outside the observation window and felt dread creep through his veins, icy and sharp, until it hurt to breathe.

Watching Rust use his own pain as a tool on this woman felt wrong. Rust was so protective of his past and to have him weaponise the memory of his daughter as an interrogation tactic… Well, it terrified Marty. 

He experienced a dizzying moment of vertigo where he didn’t recognise his partner; a moment of disconnect so powerful that looking through the glass in front of him felt like watching a drama that had nothing to do with him. Marty could taste bile on the back of his tongue. He wanted out of this damn room and away from this version of Rust.

That same disconcerting chasm Marty’d been feeling between them was even more apparent as Rust extracted his confession. It was like there was nothing behind Rust’s eyes, like the man had lost something vital over these last few months.

This wasn’t the Rust Marty knew. This wasn’t the Rust that had taken care of him last night.

Then a chilling thought gripped Marty’s heart: this could be the Rust that had lured Marty to that bar; who had pretended not to know him when they met up again… It’d be so easy for Rust to play Marty just like he was playing Charmaine… Easier, really, since Marty was so ready to believe the lie.

When Charmaine signed her confession, Rust leaned in close and whispered something to her that caused her quiet tears to turn into desperate, ragged sobs.

_ Goddamnit, Rust…  _ Marty was just as disgusted by her but that was no reason to torture the woman. He didn’t know if it was Laurie or this job or - what Marty dreaded most -  _ him _ , but something was hollowing Rust out, leaving behind a shell that more resembled the Rust he’d first met in ninety-five.

But all the worse for Marty, since he knew what Rust was capable of - subtle warmth and understated, clever jokes. This hollow version could never replace the space the Rust Marty cared for had taken up in his life.

The evidence was stacking up: Rust acting distant, avoiding Marty, last night, and now  _ this _ . Marty knew something was deeply wrong that went beyond the two of them fucking around. This was nothing some ill-advised sex could explain; nothing a breakup could either. 

He tried thinking of a way to broach the topic as he watched Salter flip through the handwritten confession. He didn’t know if he could afford to wait until the weekend. It was clear now that he’d already missed months of Rust spiralling down into the darkness inside himself. Marty just prayed it wasn’t too late.

When Salter handed the notebook back to Rust, Marty tried his Hail Mary.

“Hey, Rust. I was thinking that tonight we could grab a drink. Maybe hang out at my-”

“Raincheck, Hart. Type that up for me, would ya?” Rust interrupted, tossing the legal pad over onto Marty’s desk. He swung his jacket on, obviously heading out. “Got something to check out.”

“This confession is, like, forty goddamn pages. Least you could do is-”

“Look. You got somewhere to be?” Rust asked, looking Marty dead in the eye. It was an unnecessarily cruel question. Marty never had anywhere to be unless he had his girls or plans with Rust. Last night had been an anomaly and Rust fucking knew it. “C’mon, man. Want me to tie your shoes for you too?”

He didn’t wait for a response from Marty before walking towards the exit. Irritation and rejection quickly turned into anger in Marty’s gut. He pushed away from his desk and chased after Rust.

“Hey!  _ Hey! _ ” He hissed as he trailed Rust to the top of the entrance stairs. He grabbed Rust’s elbow and the man halted. “The fuck’s with the attitude, huh?”

“I got the confession. Now, I got someplace to be,” Rust said flatly, looking off through the glass front of the building rather than at Marty.

“ _ We _ got the confession, Cohle.” Rust turned on him them, knocking Marty’s hand to the side and bringing them chest to chest.  _ Good _ , Marty thought, desperate to get  _ some _ sort of genuine reaction. “Funny thing about being  _ partners _ .”

“See? That’s where you’re wrong,” Rust whispered, low and threatening. “How we work is I get people to talk, you write the stats. It’s worked out well for you so far. You’re still under the misapprehension that I need you.”

Marty felt the slap of those words. His hands curled into fists, but for the first time, he willed himself to look past his initial instinct to lash out. Rust wasn’t meeting his eyes. He stared past Marty.

“ _ Hey _ , don’t pull this shit with me, Rust,” he said softly, his tone belying the harsh words. “This isn’t you… Last night- This weekend- I meant…”

Rust was right to doubt him. He could never just  _ say _ what he meant and the crap that came out of his mouth was avoidant. No wonder Rust had pulled away from him… was still pulling away… 

He tentatively touched Rust’s chest, ignoring that they were in such a public place. Let the assholes talk. His heart stoppered up his throat. Rust’s eyes reluctantly met his.

“Listen… do what you have to do… Okay?” he said haltingly, still struggling to swallow his anger and hurt. He moved his thumb minutely; a caress across Rust’s collarbone. “But we  _ are  _ going to talk about this.”

Rust clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to Marty’s mouth, and for a breathtaking moment, Marty thought that Rust might close the distance between them.  _ Do it _ , he pleaded internally.  _ Fuck it, just do it _ . He’d take anything right now, even if it was Rust publicly outing him as some strange punishment.

“You’re a fool if you think I’m ever gonna hold you to that,” Rust rasped, and then he was gone, jogging down the stairs and away from Marty.

Marty grabbed ahold of the balcony railing to keep upright.  _ What the fuck did that mean? _ He stared at the front doors long after Rust had left. All Rust ever did was hold Marty accountable, sometimes to an irritating degree, so what the  _ fuck  _ did he mean by that?

Finally, he turned himself around and went to type out the confession. He needed something mindless that he could lose himself in, but the sound of the keyboard as he slowly made his way through the densely packed pages merely served to amplify the uncertainty inside him.

_ Clack-clackick-click… _

_ Go back to the beginning, Marty. _

_ Click-clickclick-clack… _

_ Look at the evidence. _

_ Clack-clackclack-clack… _

The break-up hadn’t been the beginning. Rust had begun disappearing without explanation before that. Marty hadn’t made the connection until now because Rust had made his excuses back then with warmth and a smile. 

_ God, he missed Rust’s smile _ … Focus.

_ Click-click… _

The break-up had been a symptom of whatever was wrong. Laurie had been a casualty. Rust had pushed her away. Marty’s hands froze over the keys as he realised that he’d be the next casualty if he didn’t fight.

Rust was pushing him away. All the excuses… months of them. And then the game of chicken in that bar bathroom. What if Rust hadn’t lured him there for that purpose? He’d been trying to shake him and Marty hadn’t behaved the way Rust had expected.

Seven fucking years. Of course Rust thought he knew Marty, but what if Marty hadn’t followed Rust’s script? He’d expected Marty to balk and run. Then the question was what was Rust hiding from Marty? 

Not a woman… or a man. He’d given up that secret - they both had - in that damn bathroom. And Marty was pretty sure it wasn’t drugs. Rust had slipped up a few times over the years and he’d always turned to Marty, however begrudgingly, for help… No, Marty’d know if it was drugs.

Then a thought hit him out of the blue:  _ What if the sex had been about distracting Marty since Rust hadn’t been able to shake him? _

He tamped down on his thoughts that were threatening to spiral.

_ Forget the personal shit, Marty. It’s not important. Get to the root of the matter: Why is Rust digging into the Ledoux case? _

No matter how many times he went over it as he typed, Marty kept coming back to last Friday night. Had Rust known of his… interest? And had he used it as a tool against Marty to keep him from asking questions?

As much as Marty wanted to believe that Rust would never do that, he couldn’t rightly say that anymore. His faith in their friendship, in everything they’d built over the last seven years, was shaken badly.

Because it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Rust was just playing a role. Marty had seen him do it countless times. Would he recognise it if Rust pulled on a mask in front of him, especially if it fulfilled Marty’s most secret, shameful fantasies? He didn’t think he would. Just admitting it made him sick to his stomach, because it raised the possibility that Rust had used him - or let Marty use him… had lied to him… in order to get him out of the way.

Marty stopped typing, mid-sentence. He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed answers or he was going to drive himself insane or, knowing himself, do something incredibly stupid.

Again.

He knew he was going to get shit from Salter for not finishing the report, but he tapped the pages of the confession he’d ripped from the pad into the casefile and locked it into his desk, shut down his computer, and left for the day. He already had his cell to his ear as he walked out of the precinct. The call went to voicemail.

_ “You’ve reached Detective Cohle. Leave a message.” _ Christ, Rust was such an asshole sometimes. Still, the brusque message made him smirk. God help him, he found it fucking endearing. Too many years of exposure to it, probably.

“Hey, so… I was serious ‘bout talking. I’m- I’m holding  _ myself _ to that.” He got to his car and threw his jacket and briefcase across to the passenger seat, then leaned against the roof of the car, looking down. “You’re probably still busy with your thing but gimme a call when you’re done. I’ll bring over beer and we can talk about-”

Was he really going to say this aloud for the first time to a machine?  _ Talk about us _ .

“We can talk about what’s going on between us, because I want-”  _ Guess so.  _ But Marty stopped himself short. This wasn’t about what  _ he  _ wanted. He was worried about Rust. “I’m fucking worried about you, Rust, and I don’t know what’s happened that you feel like you can’t come to me? Or whatever? Just… please. Please, Rust… call me back.”

He snapped his phone shut before he could keep rambling and end up saying something he’d regret. He looked up and stared across the parking lot. He suddenly felt stifled by the overfamiliarity of the view.

In yet another startling revelation, he questioned his own motivations about wanting Rust. Seven years of partnership and it’d only become an issue for him in the last year or so. Sure, he’d always known- always  _ thought _ Rust was attractive, yeah, but-

Marty sighed and got behind the wheel. He didn’t want to think about it but the doubts came of their own accord.

What if this was just another one of his desperate flailings? He knew he had a pattern of getting bored or feeling trapped, and reaching for the nearest convenient thing that would make him feel like he had control or hell, even just make him  _ feel _ something.

Familiar streets passed in a blur. He could make this commute on autopilot. 

He thought about Beth, the girl from that bunny ranch back in the day. They’d met again in the bar and grill near his place, and she’d been flirting with him for months. He had her number. He could call her. He was ninety-percent sure that she’d fuck him. The thought wasn’t unappealing, but then-

_ Rust’s mouth, Rust’s fingers on his calf… thumb stroking his hand… fingers in his hair… _

Marty gripped the steering wheel hard enough that it hurt. This was like no other obsession he’d ever had. Rust drove all thoughts of other pleasures from his mind. Anyone else would be a pale substitute. Hell, look at the opportunity he’d thrown away last night with Daniel… 

Marty’d rather get Rust back on his couch, laughing over pizza and beer than chase tail. He’d rather go back to what they’d had before. It’d been enough for him then. It could be enough for him again.

He was lying to himself, of course. It’d hurt like hell to know - truly  _ know  _ that there was potential between them - but if the alternative was losing Rust… He couldn’t. He couldn’t even face the thought of losing Rust.

Marty parked in front of his apartment and choked out a barking laugh. He was an idiot. He knew this feeling.

He was in love with Rustin  _ fuckin’ _ Cohle.

“You  _ fool _ , Marty,” he muttered to himself, repeating the truth of Rust’s earlier insult. It’d be a miracle if Rust didn’t already know this, even if Marty was only just now realising it.

Marty sat in his car absorbing this shift in his perspective. It made so many things over the last seven years suddenly snap into focus. He really was a fool, and as a fool, he wanted to do something foolish, like drive over to Rust’s and confess his pathetic, inconsequential love as if it would mean something to anyone but himself.

Instead, he peeled himself out of the driver’s seat and went upstairs. Forcing Rust to do anything never went well. He’d already reached out. The ball was in Rust’s court now. 

Marty wasn’t happy about it so he popped open a beer, despite the lingering malaise from last night’s ill-conceived binge, and plopped himself down in front of the television. He would watch a movie and eat a pizza on his own, he decided. Maybe Rust would call him back.

Or maybe Marty needed to start getting used to the idea that this was his future and Rust wouldn’t be a part of it.

Rust didn’t call him back and Marty fell asleep, alone, on the couch around midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me life!


	6. a little like it ain't real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty finally knows what he wants, but his plans are derailed when the shit hits the fan.

Marty dragged himself into work, nursing what felt like an emotional hangover. His back hurt from sleeping in front of the television, his head hurt from worry, and his heart hurt from  _ everything _ . Yesterday’s revelation had sliced him up with a thousand, tiny cuts. He’d been content with  _ wanting _ , but loving…? The last time he’d loved someone, he’d found himself panicked and claustrophobic from expectations, both hers and his own.

Unlike Rust, Marty chafed at playing a role.

He tried imagining coming to resent Rust for his judgements; their arguments; rubbing up against each other every day both at work and home… Hell, they’d been doing a version of all that for close to seven years, but the fear of all they had going sour wrapped its claws around Marty’s lungs and squeezed.

He walked into the bullpen and spotted Rust already sitting at their conjoined desks. It looked as though he’d just got there and was still settling in. Marty’s eyes swept over the dark blonde waves of his hair, the way it tapered to a point at the nape of his neck, the tension in his shoulders… He was suddenly overcome with the desire to walk across the room and place a kiss against the curved shape of vertebrae visible above the collar of his suit jacket.

“Martin Hart, what are  _ you _ smiling about?” Cathy asked as she walked up to her desk. Marty blinked at her, surprised. He hadn’t realised he’d been smiling.

“Oh… you know, just another wonderful day, darlin’,” he replied with exaggerated cheeriness. She hummed skeptically, looking him up and down like a disappointed mother.

“Want some coffee?” He nodded and headed to his desk. She called after him. “I’ll get the story out of you one way or ‘nother!”

“Yes, please, and no you won’t because there’s nothing to tell,” he teased over his shoulder. He was beyond grateful to her for the simplicity and normality of the interaction.

Marty walked around the edge of the bullpen and approached from a different direction. For no other reason than he wanted to see Rust for a few seconds longer before he realised Marty was there. 

When Rust finally did glance up, Marty didn’t try to hide his happiness. He didn’t have a choice in the grin that came unbidden to his lips.  _ Go big or go home, right? _ He was just opening his mouth to greet his partner when Salter appeared in the door of his office and a pall fell over the whole bullpen. Heads turned and shoulders tightened, everyone holding their breath to see who was going to be the target of this ire.

“Hart. Cohle. In here. Now,” he ordered in a strangely calm, clipped tone. The rest of the detectives let out a collective sigh.

Marty tried to catch Rust’s eye but Rust was already standing up, lips thinned in irritation and displeasure. Marty knew that expression well enough to know that Rust was aware what this was about, but there was something else in the set of Rust’s jaw that threw him: resignation.

Marty glanced back at Cathy who was caught in a frozen tableau halfway between the breakroom and their desks, his coffee poised in her hand. She was wearing the same confused expression he assumed was on his own face. This wasn’t good. When  _ Cathy  _ didn’t know, it never was. She snapped out of her surprise and hurried over to him.

“Looks like you’re gonna need this, honey,” she said, voice gentle and low, pressing the hot coffee into his hand. “Good luck.”

He trailed behind Rust towards Salter’s office, trying to read the back of Rust’s neck, the cant of his shoulders, the tension in his back…  _ Guilt _ , it said. But guilt over what? Whatever they were walking towards? Or maybe Marty was reading too much into it and it was just regret over what Rust was walking away from: Marty.

Doubt fled his mind as soon as they entered Salter’s office. Speece sat on Salter’s couch, leaning menacingly against the arm and looking pissed as hell. Marty’s alarm at the situation ratcheted up another few notches. If Salter’s boss was here, it either meant someone had done something really well or fucked up big time. Marty hadn’t even spoken to the man since their heyday back in ninety-five, so he was pretty sure it wasn’t the former.

Besides, he knew- he  _ knew _ . Even if he didn’t know the specifics, he knew shit was about to go down. He could sense disaster hanging in the air like impending rain. He touched Rust’s elbow and drew level with him. Rust darted a look at him and Marty nodded, trying to convey that they’d face this together.

“Take a seat, boys,” Salter said lightly, gesturing at the two chairs front of his desk. Rust subtly disengaged from Marty’s hand and took the left hand chair. 

That, alone, threw Marty more than the rest of it. They so often defaulted to their usual configuration - Marty on the left, Rust on the right - it was strange to shake it up without cause. Which meant there was cause, and Rust knew what was going on. 

He tried not to take being left out of the loop personally, but goddammit, it  _ was _ personal.

Marty took his time before sitting down. He looked at Speece, then Salter, then lastly, down at Rust. He gripped his partner’s shoulder and forced the coffee on him.

“Here.” Rust took the mug but shot him a questioning look. Marty raised his eyebrows.  _ Keep your mouth shut _ , he hoped it said. The coffee would give Rust something to do other than talk. For such a smart man, he never knew when to keep quiet. Marty gave Rust’s shoulder a squeeze. Rust hesitated but then gave a small, abrupt nod.

Only then did Marty throw himself into his seat and give both his superiors a polite smile.

“So… what’s this about, gentlemen,” he said brightly. He had quite a bit of goodwill built up with these two. Maybe he could use it to buffer whatever they were pissed at Rust about.

“Like you don’t know,” Salter spat at him. Marty shrugged and leaned back, resisting his natural instinct to tense up for a fight. Salter’s eyes darted between Rust and him, consideringly. When he spoke again, his tone was completely changed. “ _ Do _ you know?”

Rust stood, set the coffee on the edge of Salter’s desk, and circled around to stand behind his chair. Marty could feel the anger roiling off him in waves. He clenched his jaw.  _ Don’t do it, Rust. Trust me. For once in your fucking life, trust me. _

“Look,” Marty said, raising his hands. “Why don’t you just tell us why we’re in trouble. No need for the… theatrics.”

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Speece, trying to tone his statement in a way that suggested they’d never stoop so low. But Instead of diffusing the situation, it just seemed to rile Salter more. He hit his knuckles flat against the top of his desk - hard enough the the coffee jumped and scooched out over the edge. Marty pressed his heels into the floor, willing himself not to get caught up in the heightened emotions. He fixed his eyes on the mug; watched the concentric ripples on the surface of the liquid.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Salter accused, hands on hips. He talked over Marty’s head, directly to Rust. This wasn’t about Marty and it concerned him as to why he’d even been brought in at all if they were going to just ignore him. “Hmm? What did I tell you? You’re fucking unbelievable, boy.”

Marty wasn’t going to sit by as an accessory or let them think he was here out of some sense of obligation.

“Major, I-”

“You know about this?” Salter immediately zeroed in on him, leaning hard on his desk. The mug wobbled dangerously. Marty sat forward and grabbed it, shooting what he hoped looked like an annoyed glance over his shoulder at Rust, but was an excuse to observe his partner.

Rust’s arms were crossed defensively, shoulders squared, feet planted. He looked put out rather than as if he’d been caught. He’d been expecting this and was ready to fight. It pissed Marty off royally that Rust hadn’t confided in him and that, even now, he refused to include Marty, his goddamn  _ partner _ .

Well, fuck that… 

Marty leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. It was perfect and he took a moment to appreciate it. So much in his life was a mess but Cathy had made him a cup of perfect goddamn coffee because she liked him. He took a deep breath.

“Know what, boss?” he asked, trying to inject a tone of overt innocence. He wanted Salter to assume he knew. Salter squinted at him and Marty smirked as he took another sip.

“Your partner here, he braced Billy Lee Tuttle.”

_ Bullshit _ , he wanted to say. He knew Rust. He’d never be that fucking stupid; that fucking unsubtle. But at the same time,  _ Goddamnit, Rust. The Tuttles? _

“Oh,  _ braced _ . Are you fuckin’ kidding me? It was a friendly conversation.” The exasperation in Rust’s tone was telling. He might have known he was pressing his luck, but he hadn’t expected for it to be for this. 

He’d been warned. Salter had tried warning Marty too. They hadn’t listened and now here they were… 

“Hey, dipshit,” Speece chimed in, raising his eyes for the first time since they’d entered the room. “You don’t get to decide what kind of conversation it was.”

It was becoming clear to Marty that this wasn’t another warning; this wasn’t even a reprimand. Speece had been sicced on Rust because he dared to ask questions of a powerful family. The Governor, himself, had probably sent Speece to raise hell. 

Marty scooted his chair at an angle so he could look up at Rust while also shifting them closer together. He wanted to ask why he’d been having a conversation with the reverend but he was pretty sure he already knew what’d it’d been about, even if he didn’t know the details. Asking in front of these two would only break their united front, but they were going to have words later.

“And you! Look at you. You look like you haven’t seen your own bed in a couple days, huh?” Salter pointed at him. He didn’t know if Salter was actually mad at him or if he thought he was being kind, giving Marty an out. Marty glared up at him. All he’d fucking seen was his own damn bed, but there was no denying he looked and felt  _ rough _ . He wasn’t going to let this happen. He wasn’t going to let them railroad Rust. “Yeah? What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

Marty cleared his throat, eyeing Rust obliquely.  _ Shut your mouth _ .

“Rust’s workin’ something,” Marty said, with far more conviction than he felt. He turned to look directly at Rust as he continued. “If he thinks there’s somethin’ to look into, I believe him.”

He raised his chin defiantly and met Rust’s eye. Rust looked disappointed and turned back to Salter.

“This is exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” Rust leaned on the the backrest of the unoccupied chair, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping it. “If he was pissed off after the conversation we had, then I am onto fuckin’ somethi-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Salter order, jabbing a finger at Rust. “I told you. I fucking told you! And Hart, you damn well know I did.”

The accusatory finger swung to him. Marty shrugged noncommittally, effectively making it clear which side he was on. Salter’s expression flickered.  _ Don’t act so surprised, you asshole _ . _ I as good as told you my loyalties the last time you dragged me in here. _

Salter straightened, faltering momentarily, but then the anger came roaring back.

“Badge and gun Cohle. You’re suspended.”  _ What the fuck? _ Marty sat up straight. “One month without pay.”

Marty reached over without thinking and held onto the back of the empty chair beside him, his pinky brushed against the side of Rust’s hand. They locked eyes even as Salter charged on. Under the jaw-clenching anger, Rust looked sad… regretful… 

“Repeated rank insubordination… misallocation of departmental resources.”

_ No. _ He turned back to his CO, leaving his hand where it was. He needed to know Rust was there; needed that reassurance.

“Leroy, come on. That’s over the top-” he protested. Rust remained stoically silent.

“Don’t you  _ fuckin’ _ Leroy me, Marty! I told you. I told you  _ both _ .” That damn finger was back, swinging back and forth between Rust and him. “Cut the shit. It’s done. Badge and gun, Cohle.”

Marty glanced at Speece. The man smirked at the floor. This was always going to happen, Marty realised. It was never a discussion. The decision had been made before they’d ever entered this room. This was all just… ceremony; more fucking play acting. Marty was sick of it.

Rust stepped forward, knocking Marty’s arm out of the way and brushing against his leg. He stiffly unclipped his holster from his belt and slammed it down on the table. Speece looked up. Rust stared at him, as if daring him to say something.

_ Coward _ , Marty wanted to scream, but he couldn’t move. He felt as though he were watching an accident happen in slow motion and there was nothing he could do to stop it.  _ Sending Salter to do your dirty work for you _ .

“Oh, and, uh, before your official reinstatement,” Salter said casually, sitting back down with an air of a job well done. Rust struggled to pull his badge from his belt. “You have thirty hours mandated departmental counseling.”

“You fuckin’ serious?” Rust sat his badge down with a  _ clink _ and turned away from the desk. Marty could see the warning signs of a full-on Rustin Cohle rant coming.

“This guy, right?” Salter said to Speece with an forced laugh, before addressing Rust again. “I got to kick you in the fucking head.”

Rust circled around to stand behind Marty.

“I’m the person least in need of counseling in this entire fuckin’ state,” Rust growled. Marty stood, turning in the same motion to face Rust, putting himself directly in between Rust and Salter.

“Rust…” he whispered, tentatively touching Rust’s chest. It was risky, to do this in front of their bosses but Marty didn’t fucking care anymore. He looked Rust directly in the eye. “Let me try talkin’ to ‘em, okay?”

“Don’t do me any favours, Marty,” Rust sneared, but the righteous anger he’d been building towards didn’t have it’s same edge when directed at Marty.

“Same goes for you, Hart,” Salter barked in a cold voice. Both Rust and him froze, then Rust was pushing against his hand as if to get at Salter. Marty planted his hand and firmly kept Rust at bay. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Excuse you?” he drawled as sarcastically as he could muster.

“Suspension. One month.” The man wasn’t smiling but he was smug. He raised his eyebrows.  _ I told you _ .  _ I warned you. _ Marty scoffed and shook his head.

He set his coffee down, some of it spilling over the rim and onto Salter’s desk. His gun and badge followed it, all neatly lined up in a row. He’d never been suspended before, but he never thought it would feel like this; like he was doing the right thing. He smiled slowly at Salter.

“Guess I’ll see you in a month, then.” He turned abruptly and strode towards the door. “C’mon, Rust.”

“You ain’t acting right, you don’t sound right,” Salter called after them as Rust fell in behind him. Marty found it pathetic, the desperate threats from someone determined to get the last word in.  _ You do what you gotta do, Major _ . “You’re up my ass and you were war-”

Rust slammed the door behind them, drowning out the rest of whatever Salter was going to say. Marty could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart anyway. His hands started shaking. When they got to their desks, Marty stopped to check in with Rust.

“So what now?” he asked under his breath so as not to be overheard. Rust was gathering his things with jerky, angry movements. Marty had never seen Rust’s anger unleashed and he suspected his partner was close to letting go of his rigid control.

“What do you mean,  _ what now _ ?” Rust’s voice was eerily calm.

“What’s the case?” Marty asked in exasperation, as if it should be obvious. They’d both been suspended, surely this meant-

“What now is that we go home.” Rust slung his jacket over the arm carrying his briefcase, and brushed past Marty. “See you in a month, Marty.”

The dismissal tore something raw and red hot open inside of him.  _ Fuck no. _ Rust didn’t get to  _ do  _ this. He’d toyed with Marty for too long. Months of sudden distance and silence only to pull him in just close enough to give him a taste of what could be. Marty wasn’t going to let himself be pushed away again. Not without a fight.

He grabbed his briefcase and chased after Rust, ignoring Cathy’s wide, inquiring eyes as he passed by reception - God, the rumour mill was going to have a field day with this. He flew down the stairs to the front door and burst through into the bright, blinding morning sun, startling a pair of uniformed officers in the process.

Halfway to Rust, he was struck by a sense of deja vu. He’d done this before, chasing after Rust. Even as he did it, he sensed it was fruitless; that he was repeating himself and expecting a different outcome. 

_ Know what the definition of insanity is, Marty? _ an irritated voice said in the back of his head. It was Rust. It was always Rust.

“You wait just a fucking minute,” he hollered across the parking lot at Rust’s retreating back and was surprised when Rust slowed as he reached his truck. Marty jogged over to him, but was met only with Rust’s back. He reached out and grabbed Rust’s shoulder. “Fuckin’... look at me, won’t you. Why do you never look at me anymore?”

Rust shrugged away Marty’s hand, but turned and  _ looked  _ at Marty. It wasn’t anger in his eyes, but something far more complicated and intense, as if he’d seen into Marty’s soul and what he’d found wasn’t worth his consideration anymore; that it pained Rust to look at him. Something thick and overwhelming welled up in Marty’s throat - a messy wad of despair and desperation that threatened to choke him. He swallowed it down and tried to cling to the anger he’d felt just moments ago.

“What- What the fuck were you thinkin’? Sneakin’ around behind Salter’s back- behind  _ my _ back? I’ve  _ always  _ defended you, Rust. I’ve  _ always _ fuckin’ been there for you. What the fuck changed?” Rust looked at him without emotion and shook his head as if disappointed. It pissed Marty off so badly that he wanted to lay hands on Rust. He crowded close. Rust didn’t give an inch. “What? Did you think I wouldn’t back you up? You think I would have ratted you out? You really have that low an opinion of me?”

He’d started his questioning in anger, but by the time he trailed off, the words were catching in his throat. He was terrified of the answers. He was terrified to find out if he’d already lost the person he loved most in this godforsaken world before he’d gotten a chance to love him properly.

“Do you really…  Do you  _ really  _ not know me, Rust?” he whispered. Rust  _ did _ . Marty refused to believe otherwise. “You know me.”

Rust’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding. He leaned in closer - close enough to kiss Marty. His eyes darted down to Marty’s lips, but his mouth was curled in a silent snarl. Rust looked just as likely to hit him as he was to kiss him.

At this point, Marty would welcome either. He knew they were most likely being watched by an audience after that exit, but he didn’t care.  _ Do it _ , he thought.  _ Fucking do it and put me out of my misery. _ Marty’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and do it for him; pull him in and make it clear once and for all:  _ This is what I want _ .

But Rust didn’t do anything and the inaction was so much worse; an anticlimax that left Marty feeling week.

“Goddamn… You moron,” he hissed, as if Marty had let him down. It was worse than any insult Rust could have thrown his way. “God  _ damn…  _ you’re really  _ that _ fucking blind, aren’t you? Always were a myopic sonofabitch.”

Marty didn’t know what that meant; didn’t know if he even wanted to know. Rust opened the door to his truck, throwing his briefcase and jacket onto the passenger seat. He stepped up into the cab, but Marty caught the door before he could shut it. He wasn’t done.

“You think that making a scene is gonna win you brownie points? You think Imma throw you a pity BJ again? Were the two not enough?” Rust couldn’t have hurt Marty more if he’d punched him, but Marty saw the words for what they were: a manipulation. “Getting suspended only got you one thing, Marty: getting suspended. It wasn’t a sacrifice. It wasn’t solidarity. It was stupidity.”

“What’s going on with you, man?” Marty pleaded, ignoring how his ego was smarting. He wasn’t going to quail this time. He wasn’t going to let Rust self-destruct like this.

“Why? Salter tell you to ask?”

“Fuck no. This is me-  _ me _ . I’m asking. Fuck Salter. I didn’t give him jack shit. But this… Here? This is me.” Rust wrenched at the door and Marty barely let go quickly enough to save his fingers. “Do you have any fuckin’ idea- You’re scaring me, Rust.”

Rust started the truck and then turned dead eyes on Marty.

“You should be scared.” Marty gripped the window sill as if he could keep Rust there. “Stay out of it, Marty. Serve your time. Take a vacation. Just… leave me alone. I don’t want you around.”

“Let me help. Fuck the suspension.” He knew he was begging; knew he probably sounded pathetic and needy, but he didn’t fucking care anymore. He could feel Rust slipping through his fingers. “You know I can’t just walk away. Let me help!”

Rust leaned towards him, meeting his gaze. There was nothing home behind those eyes.

“No.”

Marty stepped back, the rejection finally sinking in. Once again, he was left standing as Rust left him behind, but this time, Marty wasn’t going to stand for it. He still had some fight in him.

But first he needed to go home and think. He needed a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rust, you utter asshole.


	7. catch me in your illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty confronts Rust in the aftermath of their suspension. Things get heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY

Marty went home to his bland, empty apartment. He stood in the entryway with his back pressed to the door and wondered why in the years he’d been living here, he’d never bothered to make it a home. It was as sterile as the day he’d moved in - blank, off-white walls, and generic, knock-off IKEA furniture. 

At first, he’d held out hope that it was temporary but it’d been six years. The space was filled with indelible memories - making breakfast with Audrey on an early Sunday, helping Macie with her homework at the dining table, lounging on the couch with Rust - but there was no evidence of them to be seen. There should be photographs on the walls, there should be odd decor choices that were obviously gifts, there should be mess, there should be someone’s forgotten clothing or a second toothbrush next to the sink…  _ anything _ to show that he was sharing his life with someone special.

What the fuck was he waiting for?

He sighed and threw his jacket and briefcase onto the tan, secondhand couch. He knew what he was waiting for now; what’d he’d hidden from himself since moving out of Rust’s all those years ago. 

He was waiting for Rust.

He wanted Rust back. He even wanted the tension and the bickering from their cohabitating in ninety-five back.

It seemed so fucking obvious in hindsight. His fingerprints were all over Rust’s living space: a spare television on top of a crate opposite Rust’s bed, extra pillows and blankets to make the mattress more comfortable for movie watching, a bookshelf gifted for Rust’s birthday that hadn’t been assembled until Marty took the task on himself. He even had clothes and toiletries in the guest bedroom for when he spent -  _ used  _ to spend - the night after it got too late or they got too drunk.

How many times had they fallen asleep together on Rust’s bed instead of Marty making the trek upstairs to the creaky guest bed? His blood flushed hot at the thought of all those chances; all that closeness… 

Marty flopped face-first down on the couch and groaned at the prospect of an entire month rattling around alone in the awful white box. No. He couldn’t do it.  _ Wouldn’t  _ do it. Rust didn’t want him involved in whatever he was working on, fine. But Marty was going to get the answers he deserved.

He was also going to try and get Rust to change his mind, because this was bullshit, Rust boxing him out like this. The anger had leached out of him and there was only the ghost of hurt that still lingered. Both emotions been replaced by determination and a resolve to figure out what was going on, and hopefully -  _ god _ , he hoped it was possible - fix it.

All he knew was that  _ something  _ had changed and he was pretty sure it wasn’t on his side.

He heaved himself up off the couch and went to take a long, hot shower. He didn’t plan on giving Rust too much time alone to brood about this. He didn’t want to give himself too much time to overthink either. It seemed to be the only thing he did nowadays.

After the shower, he pulled on jeans and a tee, ignoring the jittery feeling in his stomach. This wasn’t a date - hell, it was most likely going to lead to another argument - but his body didn’t much seem to care. It  _ craved _ , like Rust was a drug that Marty’d been too long without. 

He cringed at the apt and totally inappropriate comparison. He didn’t want to need Rust like this. And he didn’t, not really. He was sure he could survive without him. But even thinking about Rust no longer being a part of his life made his heart ache in an unfamiliar way. He had to pause in pulling on his shoes and double over on the end of his bed.

He had to fix this. He  _ had  _ to.

His palms were sweating when he finally left the apartment just as the sun was setting. He didn’t much have a plan other than to grab some beer and show up to Rust’s with it as a peace offering. They’d had their arguments before and it’d always seemed to work. They’d drink and talk and maybe Marty’d find out that he’d been acting like an ass and he could apologise and learn and then-

He shook his head and refocused on the road. He wasn’t going to let himself do this; start setting expectations. Because this  _ wasn’t _ like any of those times before. Marty could feel the significance and weight of this night in his bones.

He needed to be totally and completely honest with Rust in a way he’d never been before, and that - letting himself be vulnerable to someone like Rust - frightened him far more than suspensions or murder cases ever could.

\---

He sat out front of Rust’s for longer than necessary. Rust’s truck was there but the place was dark- well, nearly dark. Inside, a light flickered, almost like a television was on, but Rust didn’t watch tv if he didn’t have Marty forcing him to.

Or did he? What the hell did Marty know anymore… 

Marty knew he was stalling; avoiding the inevitable. He took a deep breath, grabbed the case of Lone Star from the passenger seat wheel well, and levered himself up out of the car. He’d been a coward far too often in his life. He refused to be one about this.

He steeled himself and strode up to Rust’s door with purpose. He didn’t have a clue what he was going to say but he knocked on the door, hoping it sounded confident but not angry. It took a long time for Rust to answer the door and during that time, Marty tried not to waver, focusing instead on remembering to breathe. This was Rust;  _ his _ Rust. He clung to that conviction.

He  _ knew _ Rust. And Rust knew him.

He didn’t hear any approaching footsteps before the door opened.

_ Rust _ .

Marty’s knees went weak at the sight: Rust in a ratty, old wife beater and his work pants. He was barefoot and wide-eyed, looking unexpectedly surprised and exposed. He also looked drunk as hell and more than a little strung out, eyes bloodshot and smelling strongly of liquor.

All Marty wanted to do was pull him for a hug. Maybe he could say the things he couldn’t find the words for with his actions. Six months ago, he would have without hesitation, but so much had shifted. Marty wasn’t sure he was allowed anymore - to touch what he once so often and so casually touched - so he stared instead. He’d been lying to himself when he thought they could go back. He’d accept it given the chance, but he couldn’t imagine not itching with need to have more of Rust. 

Marty was so  _ fucking  _ good at lying to himself.

“What,” Rust said flatly. It wasn’t even a question. His eyes were glassy and hard. It was clear that he didn’t want Marty here. 

_ Yeah, well… too fucking bad. _

“Looks like you started the party without me,” Marty replied with playful annoyance - actually annoyed that he had to fake this now; fake their camaraderie - and pushed past Rust into the house. “I brought reinforcements though.”

He held up the case before sliding it onto the bartop. It was only then that he took in the wider room: the walls were covered in xeroxed crime scene photos; the table was covered with cult paraphernalia - a devil’s trap, a skull with antlers, books with etchings; a half-empty bottle of Jameson.

Marty took a few unsteady steps into the room.

Rust had been in here - in the dark, drunk and alone - with this. Not just tonight. For how long? Marty didn’t know exactly, but it was clear that he’d been doing this for months if the volume of evidence on the walls was any proof. All those months of excuses and disappearances, of pushing Marty away and evading questions… This is why Marty hadn’t been allowed over.

Marty turned to stare at Rust’s back. He’d followed Marty into the room, but turned to the bartop like he didn’t want to see Marty’s reaction to what he’d been hiding. Rust tore open the box of beer and pulled out two cans. He didn’t face Marty, merely reached back to offer him one. Marty didn’t move to take it so slowly, reluctantly, Rust turned around. He took a swig from his beer and set Marty’s aside.

He still didn’t look Marty in the eye. Or maybe he  _ couldn’t _ .

“What are you doing in here?” Marty felt the words come out of his mouth - felt the shape and form of them, the rumble in his chest and throat - but all he could hear was his own panic. Flashes of Crash and of how close Marty had seen Rust get to the edge blurring his vision.

Rust had been right. He’d been blind. He’d been so fucking blind to what Rust was struggling with. He looked at his partner and it was like looking at someone from a distance; insurmountable and impossibly far; too far to ever cross.

Well, Marty would try. He had to. He wasn’t going to let this happen. He’d been there for Rust through the Crash aftermath. He could be there again. Rust could try all he wanted to push him away. Marty wasn’t going anywhere. 

And if he went over the edge, Marty would follow him. He’d follow Rust through the goddamn gates of hell. Why couldn’t the man see that?

“What happened?” he asked, sound suddenly returning in a whoosh like the breaking of a vacuum. His ears nearly popped from the sudden pressure change.

“You know what happened. Got suspended.” Rust tipped his head back and emptied the beer in one, long pull. Marty took slow, careful steps towards him, as if towards an easily spooked animal.

“The fuck- you know that’s not what I mean.”

Rust tucked his chin, eyes moving almost to Marty before tracking away. Why was he so skittish? What had Marty done to make him so afraid of him? Marty stepped to Rust’s side and Rust lifted and turned his head, eyes still focused across the room.

“What are you doing to yourself, Rust?” Marty brought his hand up. It hovered.  _ He _ was scared; just as scared as Rust appeared to be. Something in him quavered with the absurd idea that if he touched Rust, he’d disappear or bolt. What was actually more likely was that Marty’d end up with a sore wrist. “What are you  _ doin’?  _ You can’t keep goin’ like this.”

“You know, when people give me advice, reckon they’re talkin’ ‘bout themselves,” Rust mumbled low and fast, the words barely enunciated. He was drunker than Marty had first realised, but that wasn’t going to stop him. They needed to talk. Maybe catching Rust with his guard down like this would help. Marty took the leap and pressed his fingers to Rust’s stomach, then spread them until his entire hand lay flat against Rust’s abs. The man tensed at the first touch, voice thick with suspicion. “What’re you doin’?”

Marty didn’t know. He was acting on pure instinct and since Rust was acting like a startled horse, he tried to soothe him as best he knew how. A distant, hysterical part of him realised he was treating Rust like a spooked bronco, just like one of the ones he used to ride. 

He slid his hand up, slow and lingering, looking at what he was doing rather than directly at Rust. He paused when his palm rested over Rust’s heart. It was racing. Marty could feel the heat of Rust through the thin material of the white tank. He wanted to tug at and untuck the shirt to get at the fevered skin beneath. Instead, he made himself wait. Rust was coiled tight like he might snap at any minute.

“Y’know…” Marty rumbled, soft and calm, talking just to talk; talking to soothe. “I’ve wanted to do this…”

Marty traced along Rust’s clavicle, his own heart pounding hard enough to hear inside his own head. He let his thumb dip under the left strap of Rust’s shirt. Rust leaned back against the edge of the bar, his hands gripping the countertop, turning further away from Marty. His empty beer clattered and fell to the floor. Neither one of them took notice.

Further up, hand skimming directly against skin, Marty stopped again to push two fingers against the pulsepoint on Rust’s neck, like he’d seen Rust do so many times over their years together. He’d never asked why, but right now, the action reinforced for Marty what he already knew: that Rust was just as worked up as he was.

“Tell me to stop,” he begged.  _ Don’t give me more hope than you already have, Rust. I couldn’t take it. _ Rust stared straight ahead, rigid and unmoving. Now was the moment of truth. He needed to stop relying on Rust to be brave. He always banked on his partner’s courage. It was his turn. “Tell me to stop… be honest with me, Rust…”

He cupped Rust’s jaw with his right hand and turned Rust’s head to face him. His partner resisted, but Marty didn’t let up until Rust had no other choice but to look at him. His eyes were blown wide and black, barely a hint of that familiar stormy blue. Every muscle in Rust’s body strained away from Marty. If he were to let go… Rust would back away. He was sure of it.

He could give them both that out, but instead he leaned in, not to kiss Rust on the mouth, but to gently press his lips the thundering pulse at the side of his neck - Rust’s life; his heart. Just before he did, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, his voice strained. He was close enough to smell Rust. He could almost sense what it would be like to taste him there, in that tender place where shoulder and neck met. He didn’t know if he could stop if Rust said  _ no _ .

Rust’s hand lightly touched Marty’s hip, the barest graze. His fingers alighted on several points up Marty’s side and onto his back - a tentative butterfly of desire - before settling at the nape of Marty’s neck and pulling him in with sudden, intense certainty.

Marty kissed the hollow of Rust’s throat and Rust arched his neck to allow it, fingers sliding up into Marty’s hair. He licked up and over the rapid, eager pulse, certain he could sense the uptick in rhythm under his tongue. He sucked gently behind the hinge of Rust’s jaw, high on the novelty… the taste… the tug of Rust’s fingers in his hair. 

Marty pulled back to see if this affected Rust the way it was affecting him. Rust had abandoned the safety of the counter to face Marty, but he was still trying to get away, leaning away from Marty and breathing in hard, irregular inhalations. Anger spiked up from Marty’s gut and into his heart.

“What are you so fuckin’ afraid of, huh?” he whispered unkindly into Rust’s ear before tugging the lobe with his teeth. He mouthed at the sharp, straight, impossible line of Rust’s jaw and forced Rust to meet him.

He expected to have to coax Rust into responding, but as soon as his lips angled over Rust’s mouth, it was like all the man’s resistance evaporated. He stopped pulling away so suddenly that they stumbled, Marty pinning Rust against the bar. His arms pulled Marty closer, eyes closed… and  _ he kissed him back _ … 

He kissed Marty back, wild and needy and desperate almost to the point of aggression. It was everything that Marty had never let himself want. It was too much and at the same time, it wasn’t enough. He fisted his hands in Rust’s cropped hair and deepened the kiss, tongue swiping slow and deliberate in the way he’d always imagined kissing Rust.

Then Rust shoved him in the chest, hard. Marty nearly tripped over his own feet, but Rust was on him, pushing him back, relentless, until Marty hit the wall. The impact knocked a small  _ oof _ from Marty’s lungs. Paper crinkled and tore when he shifted against the pinned pages, but he didn’t have time to worry about it before Rust pushed close and looked him in the eye. A shiver ran down Marty’s spine - a cold wash of adrenaline that made him want to push Rust away; to run or fight or both - but he forced himself to hold the gaze, remembering his promise.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Rust panted, breath hot and close against Marty’s face, smelling like alcohol. Marty didn’t let himself think. He looked deep into the blue irises of his partner, the man he loved, and said the first thing that came to his lips.

“Just you.” It surprised him in its contradictory simplicity and complexity, but at least it was true. He was tired of censoring himself and of hiding; of holding himself back and settling for scraps. It felt so good to finally say aloud that he repeated it with more conviction and emphasis. He ran his hands up Rust’s back, holding him. “Just. You.”

“No, you don’t,” Rust whispered, shaking his head in angry disbelief. His lip curled in disgust and self-loathing. Marty guided them a step away from the wall and brushed his lips against Rust’s. Rust’s breath hitched, voice catching. “Don’t do that- Don’t want me, Marty… Don’t…”

It sounded like a warning, or like a plea, or like a threat. Marty ignored them all. It only served to make Marty want to protect him more. He wanted to give Rust everything he’d been holding back, not just over the last week or so, but since the infuriating man had walked into his life and wormed his way under his skin. 

He knew he wanted Rust;  _ knew _ with a certainty that Marty hardly ever felt. He’d just have to prove it.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” A frustrated bark of a laugh caught in Rust’s throat, his face screwing up into something anguished and bitter. Marty couldn’t stand it - all the poison Rust had let build up inside himself, the darkness of it eating away at everything good inside of him. He dropped to his knees, gripped Rust’s thighs and looked up at him. “And don’t  _ ever  _ tell me what I want.”

Rust stopped breathing; stopped moving. He looked down at Marty, hands hanging motionless in the air. Marty ran his hands up to Rust’s hips, letting his thumbs brush over Rust’s groin, tracing the hard length of him. Marty was under no illusion that he was in any way in control of this situation. He was taking a hell of a gamble, but for now - for  _ this _ moment - Rust let Marty take control.

“I. Want.  _ You _ ,” he asserted clearly, raising his chin, waiting for Rust to contradict him .

He was daring Rust to stop him; daring himself to go forward. He’d never done this before, after all, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He leaned in, keeping eye contact for as long as he could before he closed them and nosed against Rust’s erection through the cloth of his slacks, lips grazing up and over in a preview of what Marty wanted to do- was  _ going _ to do to Rust.

He’d thought this would be humiliating or emasculating, being on his knees for Rust, but all he felt was powerful. How many people could say they’d rendered Rustin  _ fucking _ Cohle speechless? Marty wanted more of this feeling. He opened his lips and mouthed - hot and damp - over the fabric over Rust’s cock.

_ Yes _ , something primal in his brainstem purred, deeply satisfied.

Then Rust suddenly gripped Marty’s hair and yanked painfully on it, forcing Marty to his feet. With his other hand, he wrenched Marty’s arm, spinning him around to face the wall, pulling his wrist up towards the middle of his back, and smashing Marty’s face against the thumbtack studded wall. It  _ hurt _ \- both his body and ego were bruised.

“ _ JesusfuckOW! _ ” Marty yelled, eyes watering. “What the  _ fuck _ , Rust?”

“Since when do you fuck men, huh?” Rust hissed into Marty’s ear, his fingers releasing his hair and circling down and around to the fly of Marty’s jean. Dextrous fingers unbuttoned and unzipped the fastening, then slipped into Marty’s pants and under his briefs to palm Marty’s hard-on. “Why me? Why  _ now _ ?”

Marty breathed through the confusing pain-pleasure of his predicament and tried to form a coherent thought. In his mind, he was still on his knees. Rust’s rough hand on his cock wasn’t helping.

“I don’t… really- never before… It’s been you… for months… maybe years… I-  _ hngh _ ,” he grunted as Rust pushed at the waistband of his jeans, inadvertently increasing the pressure on his arm. If the man wasn’t careful, he was going to tear something. Marty’s shoulder was already screaming at him. It made him angry. He’d never thought Rust capable of this kind of violence toward him. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve  _ any _ of this. “ _ Fuck you _ . Why’d you assume I didn’t? Huh? Why’d you fuck with me? If you’d never lead me to that gay bar-”

“You’d what? Still be straight? Don’t foist that on me, Hart.”

“Shut up.  _ Shut up! _ For once in your goddamn life…” Marty was breathing hard, pain overriding any pleasure from before. He wasn’t hard anymore. Rust had stalled in shoving down Marty’s jeans. They bunched, along with his underwear, uncomfortably at the tops of his thighs.

Rust was silent behind him. The quiet of the room, anticipatory.

“I followed you because I was worried. That so fuckin’ hard to believe?” he whispered, cheap copy paper fluttering with his breath. “And I’ve l- I’ve wanted you…”

“Don’t-” Rust growled close to Marty’s ear, but his grip loosened.

“Why, Rust? I’m done pretending.” His wrist slipped from Rust’s hand and he let the arm fall limply to his side. He didn’t move from where he was though, sandwiched between Rust and the wall. “I’d take anything from you, even if it was-”

He felt giddy and reckless from pain, and hiccoughed through a sob.

“Even if it was just you trying to distract me from following you.” He ground his forehead against the drywall, tearing pinned up papers with the movement. Shame ran hot and cold through his body at the confession.

Rust moved his hand from Marty’s shoulder where he was pushing him against the wall, and dragged two fingers over Marty’s mouth, pressing at his bottom lip. It was clumsy and inelegant, but Marty opened uncertainly but eagerly to him, sucking on the digits. It was presumptuous, unexpected, and so very  _ strange _ , but arousal tugged low in his gut. Rust inhaled sharply behind him when Marty licked between the two fingers.

“You’d let me…” Rust said softly, sounding angry and awed as he withdrew his hand. 

The heat of him retreated momentarily. Marty was just about ready to turn around, when spit-slick fingers grazed low, seeking. Marty tensed and Rust touched him, fingers more assured, circling his hole, almost teasing. A reedy, breathy noise escaped Marty and he arched his back. It was too sudden and not nearly enough; too vulnerable and too uncertain. Too much of everything he’d never let himself want.

“You’d let me, even if you thought I was using you… you’d let me fuck you?”

“No,” Marty bit off, turning he head so he could glimpse Rust in his periphery. “I’d want you to. Even if…”

“You moron,” Rust breathed. The insult sounded reverent.

Marty was yanked backward and turned once again, propelled towards the bed then shoved, unceremoniously. He sprawled, ass in the air and exposed. Rust crawled onto the bed behind him and gripped his hips.

“You’re about to get your wish.”

No. It’d been a lie - true in the moment but fleeting. He wanted Rust, but not like this. He’d take it, but he didn’t  _ want  _ Rust’s anger and blame and poison. He pushed himself up and fought back. Rust grappled with him, but Marty was sober and Rust was decidedly not.

“Rust- fuckin’...  _ Goddamn it! _ ” he growled, managing to get his underwear up and flipping onto his back. Rust took advantage of Marty’s modesty. He grabbed Marty’s wrists and pinned them firmly against the mattress next to his head. Rust kneeled between his spread legs on his jeans, effectively and completely restraining him. A brief, intense wave of claustrophobia washed over Marty. “Stop. Rust… I’m askin’ you… please. Stop pushin’ me away… pickin’ fights…”

Rust heaved over him, breathing hard, his face close but eyes shadowed. Marty did the only thing he could think of: he arched his back, shoulders protesting from the strain, and pressed his lips as softly as he could against Rust’s. It was the gentlest they’d ever been with each other, almost chaste.

_ Love me back _ , he poured into that kiss.

Rust inhaled and turned his head away from Marty, eyes squeezed shut. Marty let himself fall back against the mattress, helpless to do anything but wait.

“I didn’t- I don’t want to feel-” Rust said through gritted teeth, every word sounding as if it pained him. “You’re weren’t s’posed to…”

“I know. I’m-” Marty stopped himself. He’d been about to say  _ I’m sorry _ , but he wasn’t sorry. He couldn’t be sorry about loving Rust. “I’m tryin’ to imagine what you can’t tell me and I’m- I’m comin’ up blank here.”

Rust opened his eyes and looked down at Marty, expression once again schooled into a blank mask, eyes studying Marty’s face. Marty returned the gaze. There was so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself, not after the echoing sting of his earlier confessions.

_ Why you?  _ He thought, eyes tracing the curve of Rust’s lips, the highlighted angles of his jaw and cheekbone, the nearly clear blue colour of his one illuminated eye.  _ How could it be anyone but you? _

_ And why now? _ The question should be _ Why did it take you so long? _

Rust sat back, wordlessly, at some cue Marty missed. He knelt at the end of the bed, motionless with his head bowed. Every line of him screamed anger and defeat, his head angled and in shadow. Even without Rust holding him down, Marty stayed frozen with his hands above his head.

“Why did you…” Marty muttered, trailing off. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to ask. About Rust pulling away? Luring him? Blowing him? All of it. He wanted answers. Instead, he gestured at the room around them, abused shoulder aching. “What are you  _ doin’ _ , Rust?”

The question encompassed so much Marty wanted to know, but beyond his desire for Rust, he loved him; truly  _ loved _ him and wanted to be there for him. He held a hand out towards his partner.

“I want you to leave, Marty,” Rust intoned in a dead voice.

“No,” he answered immediately. Marty propped himself up on his elbow, arm still extended towards Rust. He was just out of reach. “You gotta know I can’t… I won’t…”

Rust scoffed; a frustrated sound that caught in his throat.

“Let me help…” Rust ignored his hand and sighed, shoulders slumping. Marty could sense the weight of whatever he was carrying dragging him down.  _ Let me in _ . Rust suddenly moved, tugging at Marty’s shoes. “What’re you-”

“You’re not gonna leave, that leaves only one option.” Rust yanked Marty’s sneakers off without untying them and tossed them on the ground, then pulled on the hems of Marty’s jeans until they weren’t wedged tight and slid them off his legs. Rust threw them aside and then crawled up over Marty. Marty was too stunned to moved.

“You want me to stay?” Marty breathed out, almost afraid to say it aloud. Rust kissed him just as gently as Marty had last time, soft and slow and more uncertain than Marty had ever seen his partner. Marty took that as a  _ yes _ .

“I’ll explain,” Rust said before lowering himself onto Marty. He didn’t put any weight on him. He was too tense. Rust’s arms bracketed Marty’s ribcage and legs slotted in between Marty’s. “In the morning.”

“In the morning?” Marty echoed, lost. Rust huffed out a long breath against Marty’s neck.

“I’m so… tired… Never been this tired.” Rust’s voice was so quiet that it was nearly lost in the yawning silence of the room. Marty ran his hands up Rust’s arms and held him. “You’re so fuckin’  _ stupid _ , Marty. There’s nothing inside me… darkness… emptiness… endless and corrosive…”

Marty didn’t know how to argue against that. He didn’t agree, but he sensed that this was Rust’s version of a confession. He touched Rust instead, wanting to remind him that he was made of more than the things that were eating him up inside; that he wasn’t alone. He slipped his hands up under Rust’s top and counted the vertebrae of his spine, spanned the spread of his ribs, dipped his thumbs into the twin hollows just above the swell of his ass.

Slowly, almost too gradually to notice, Rust relaxed until his entire weight rested on top of Marty.

“I was trying to protect you. I was trying to chase you off.” Rust’s whisper was loud in the darkness, and then he shuddered. His voice grew so soft and plaintive that Marty barely heard what he said next. “Please don’t want me, Marty.”

Marty shushed him and turned his head to kiss him again. Rust rolled so that he lay next to Marty and Marty shifted to his side so they were mirror images of each other.

“Shoulda known you were too stubborn.” Rust begrudgingly smiled in a half-hearted and bitter manner. Marty pushed his palm against Rust’s cheek and sat up.

“That’s half of it,” Marty said, moving down Rust’s body to unbuckle his belt and carefully pull his slacks off. He didn’t want it to be sexual. He was just returning the favour. Rust needed to sleep; he needed comfort - hell, Marty needed both just as much - but he paused on his way back up and pressed a lingering kiss to Rust’s stomach. Rust touched the back of his head gently and Marty had to rest his forehead against Rust’s abdomen at the jolt of lust the gesture elicited.

“You shouldn’t do this, Marty.” Rust sounded sad and resigned. “Never did know what was good for you. Not gonna drag you into this. Not gonna let you-”

“Yeah, well…” He crawled up to lay back down next to Rust. He was hard again, but ignoring it. “Bit late for that and I’m not much for doin’ what’s good for me.”

Rust snaked an arm around Marty’s side, pulling them together with strength that stirred his desire further. He rested a hand on Rust’s hip and shifted so that their legs slid together. There was no hiding how turned on he was, but Marty had no impulse to act on it. He was happy to just  _ be _ like this with Rust. It was all so easy. 

Rust tucked his head to Marty’s shoulder, melding himself against Marty. They fit together like they were meant to do this. Marty raked his fingers through Rust’s hair.

“Think you’re stuck with me,” Marty whispered, but Rust’s breathing was already evening out. It tickled against Marty’s neck.

With Rust in his arms, fatigue pulled at Marty. He’d spent the last couple weeks on edge and he felt every second of it now, but he fought it. He wanted just a bit more of this simple, small moment of peace. For all he knew, Rust would wake up in the morning and change his mind. Tomorrow, Marty might have to fight all over again.

But for now, he matched his breathing to Rust’s and thought,  _ I could get used to this _ . _ I want to get used to this. _ His gut told him that he might just get the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this instead of sleeping. Work is gonna be FUN.


	8. like bending time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after reveals if their nighttime confessions can survive the harsh light of day.

Marty woke slowly for the first time in a long time, his mind rising weightlessly to the surface of the world. He was still exhausted and turned his face into the pillow to block out the morning light, hoping he’d drift back off to sleep. The last few weeks had worn him out to an extent that he hadn’t realised until last night-

_ Last night _ … 

And then Marty realised what had woken him up: Rust. 

More specifically, Rust’s morning wood pressing hard up against his ass.

The man was spooned up behind him, one hand under Marty’s tee shirt and flat against his lower stomach, pinkie ghosting against the elastic of his underwear. Half of him was suddenly, extremely awake at this contact, the other half was embarrassed that Rust was touching that area. He’d gained a bit of a pudge over the last few years that he couldn’t seem to shake. Rust on the other hand… Marty clenched his fingers, recalling the hard, flat plane of Rust’s abdomen from last night.

He decided to lean into the arousal, pushing away the self-consciousness. Rust was  _ touching him _ . That was the important part. Rust was touching him… had kissed him… had slept next to him. And not in their usual, habitual way of sharing a bed, no. Rust had fallen asleep in Marty’s arms; Marty had awoken in Rust’s. Marty couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept - literally slept - with someone where every movement in the night hadn’t disturbed him.

It seemed as though in this, as with so many other things, they already had a level of knowledge and understanding that went beyond conscious decision and into instinct. 

Rust’s fingers twitched, a touch so soft that it almost tickled.  _ Almost _ . Marty had to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his jaw to keep himself from grinding back or guiding Rust’s hand exactly where he wanted it. Marty didn’t want to wake him. He needed sleep.

Besides, that part of… everything… was still up in the air. Despite already having crossed that line in that bar bathroom and nearly crossing it further last night, Marty wasn’t sure what Rust wanted from this.

Behind his eyelids, Marty recalled last night in light bulb flashes of sensation and image: the surrender he’d felt in Rust the first time he’d kissed him, the heat in Rust’s eyes as he looked down at Marty on his knees, the internal struggle that’d spilled over into external violence, Rust’s fingers skimming intimately over Marty’s hole… 

Marty wondered what would have happened if he’d let Rust fuck him; if it would have quelled his anger. Without knowing what was going on inside Rust’s head, Marty wasn’t sure. It might have broken them for Rust to have taken him like that. Marty was pretty sure it would have been too much for him - to finally have had Rust out of anger; yet another barrier between them.

Rust’s hand moved again, more purposefully, startling Marty from his thoughts.

“For someone with so little goin’ on his head, you fret awful loudly,” Rust grumbled from where he had his face pressed between Marty’s shoulders. “Go back to sleep… ‘less you have somethin’ to say?”

Rust’s hand inched downwards and into Marty’s briefs, his calloused fingers circling around Marty’s cock. Marty made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whine. He arched his back, sucking in a breath when Rust thrust to meet him. Marty flushed at the slight dampness he could already feel through two layers of cloth.

“Want you to fuck me,” he breathed, cheeks heating. “I’d have let you last night. I want it. I-”

“Don’t have any lube,” Rust huffed, twisting his hand on the next stroke. Marty turned his face back into the pillow and cursed.

“ _ Fuck _ … I don’t care.” He reached back and gripped Rust’s thigh. A lot of things had been said between them last night and he needed this. Rust could talk circles around him to try and reassure him, but sex had always meant more to Marty - to feel needed and wanted. He didn’t know how to explain that to Rust though.

Rust hesitated, then withdrew his hand, hooked his thumb into the waistband of Marty’s underwear and pulled at it. Marty helped him shimmy it down his legs. He kicked them into the mess of blankets at the end of the bed. Rust pulled back a little, shifting behind him before shuffling close again, one hand gripping the base of Marty’s neck lightly. Marty groaned at the feeling of bare skin; of the slick head of Rust’s cock nudging at him already.

He’d expected more resistance or an outright  _ no _ from Rust, not this easy and accepting acquiescence.

“You ever been fucked before?” Rust asked, sounding breathless. Marty nodded, barely able to think, let alone formulate a reply. Rust pushed at his top leg so that Marty bent it and then dragged the head of his erection over Marty’s entrance.

“ _ Jesus… _ ” he whined, too focused on the gentle pressure and glide of sensation to be embarrassed anymore. “Fingered by a few girlfriends… fucked by one.”

“Strap-on?” Marty grunted his affirmation. Rust’s tone was distant. “And you liked it.”

“Already knew then… I wanted you…” Marty gasped as Rust  _ pushed _ slightly forward, then let up, guiding his cock with his hand and spreading his precome over Marty’s hole. There was more of it than Marty’d expected, smoothing the friction into something that made him gasp. “Thought about you the whole time.”

It should have been humiliating, admitting something aloud that he’d barely let himself acknowledge, but the way Rust’s breath hitched and his fingers tightened on Marty’s neck made it okay. There was power in catching Rust off-guard. Marty grinned and arched his back again, wanting more, needing-

Rust stilled as Marty’s hole stretched and the head of his cock sank into him. Rust let go of himself and gripped Marty’s hip, keeping Marty from trying for more. Marty made a frustrated noise. He wanted it to sting and to ache. He knew how good it would feel after. He was already gagging with just this barest intrusion; the promise of being stretched and filled.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” Rust said with tight restraint, hips rocking slightly, each small thrust sinking into Marty incrementally more.

“Think you’re hurting me?” He grabbed Rust’s hand and dragged it down to where he was hard and leaking. Rust huffed out a sharp breath through his nose as if he didn’t approve, but didn’t stop Marty from straining to take more of him. Rust retreated until Marty stopped, then rocked forward.

They kept up this exchange, each testing and pushing and pressing, wanting more but refusing to give ground. The give and take mirrored their partnership - a subtle negotiation of needs and wants; compromise and demand. It left Marty gasping and panting for more.

It did hurt, Marty had to admit, but the pleasure of having Rust inside him - the knowledge of it, if not the from act in the moment - was more than worth it. They finally met each other - Marty pushing back just as Rust thrust forward - and the curve of Rust’s hips settled against his ass. Marty forced himself to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of being invaded, making himself relax.

“Next time- We’re using lube” Rust gritted through clenched teeth, fingers moving to dig into Marty’s hip. Marty knew there’d be bruises there tomorrow and he arched again so that Rust gripped tighter. “M’close, Marty.”

Marty cupped his hand over Rust’s and stopped antagonising. He wasn’t ready for this to be over just yet. He didn’t even care if they couldn’t fuck in earnest. This was enough, to have Rust inside him and curled around him. Marty dragged Rust’s hand back to his cock and got him stroking again, stoking the arousal that had ebbed with the discomfort.

“So there’ll be a next time?” he tried teasing. The words came out as a plea instead. He clenched around Rust without meaning to.

“ _ Shit _ …” Rust hissed under his breath. “Know I’ll wanna fuck you again, yes.”

“Fair warning…” Marty said cautiously, trailing off. He wasn’t quite sure how to finish his sentence. Rust propped himself up on his elbow and Marty twisted to look up at him. It was almost more intimate than having Rust inside him - or maybe it was all the more intimate because of it. Whatever it was, having Rust buried inside him while making eye contact stole the breath from Marty’s lungs, forcing him to whisper. “When you fuck me for real… with lube… I’m not gonna last… Not with you.”

A strange, pained expression crossed Rust’s face, and he leaned down to kiss Marty. It was sloppy, the angle awkward, but Marty brought up his free hand to cup the side of Rust’s face. After the kiss, Rust didn’t draw away. He rocked against-  _ inside _ Marty, and stroked him slowly. Marty groaned at the strange pressure grazing against his prostate. It was good.  _ Goodgoodgood _ … 

“Where you serious about helping me?” Rust asked. Marty blinked up at him, trying to focus. “With the Ledoux case?”

Marty moaned in frustration. Of course Rust wanted to talk about this  _ now _ , but knew his partner wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t important. Marty reached with both hands and held Rust’s face so that he couldn’t look away.

“You could have come to me months ago… at any time…” Rust tried to shake his head, but Marty held on tighter, emotion welling up under his breastbone in a way he recognised. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up crying. He rocked back to distract himself, barely able to speak in between the small movements they made, meeting one another over and over… cautiously, tentatively. “You’re my friend… and my partner… You’re… you’re the one person… I can- I’d do anything for… I meant what I said and…  _ fuck _ … you’re an asshole… for not bringing this to me.”

“Your penchant for hyperbole is-” Marty pulled him down and kissed him again, fiercely this time. Rust came willingly, hand cupping the back of Marty’s head and arm hugging him tightly. Marty may have been oblivious and slow to realise his feelings, but Rust was so deep in denial that Marty’d have to drag him out of it kicking and screaming.

“ _ Anything _ ,” he hissed around the pressure in his throat. “Now even if you have to debrief me during, for God’s sake, fuck me.”

Rust didn’t draw away. He looked Marty in the eye and gripped Marty’s hip. Then he withdrew a few inches and thrust into Marty. Marty choked on an incoherent noise and tried to roll his head away. It was too much - too much friction, too much pleasure, too much  _ connection _ ; sudden, intense connection with someone who had done nothing but obfuscate his emotions for months now. Marty couldn’t bear to look at the nimiety of feeling in Rust’s eyes.

“ _ Look at me, Marty _ ,” Rust demanded, unmoving.

It took everything Marty had to turn back to Rust. He felt laid bare; open and vulnerable. There’d always been this between them with Rust’s ability to pick him apart, but this was so different. This was Marty willingly letting Rust in…

And Rust, in all his darkness and brilliance and loneliness, opening for Marty willingly. Marty covered his mouth, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. The emotions he’d been harboring for months and wrestling with for the last few weeks were forcing themselves up his throat. Rust kissed the back of his hand and took pity on him.

“I don’t know why I didn’t notice it back in the day, how the governor sicced his dogs on us,” Rust panted. His speech was cut up into staccato fragments between his shallow thrusts. “Blame it on the new job or sobriety or you-”

“Me?” Marty moaned, voice muffled by his hand. Rust grunted on his next thrust and stayed inside Marty, grinding his hips.

“Wanted you-” Rust choked out, forehead shiny with sweat. Marty reached up, swiping his palm over it and back into Rust’s damp hair. Rust closed his eyes and turned into the caress. “Since the beginning. Even when I hated you… I wanted you. Could barely stand to be around you.”

“I didn’t know…”

“What good would it’ve done?” Rust worked his hand under Marty’s shirt and touched his chest. “You tellin’ me we’d have fucked back then?”

He cracked open his eyes, smirking down at Marty smugly.

“You tellin’ me you’d have wanted me back?” Rust’s tone made it clear he thought he knew the answer. Marty traced Rust’s lower lip with his thumb. Rust grazed his teeth over the pad. Marty wouldn’t have, not back then. He’d been too wrapped up in Maggie and Lisa - and his own dogged heterosexuality - to ever realise why he’d been so threatened by Rust. He’d needed the time to ease into the reality of his own desire. “Not a fool, Marty.”

The way Rust rumbled Marty’s name was different and new. Marty wanted him to say it again.

“You tellin’ me you didn’t realise when I wanted you back?” Marty asked, awed by this new information. Rust bit down on Marty’s thumb.

“Been preoccupied…” Rust grumbled, lowering himself back down and pulling Marty so his back was against Rust’s chest. Marty was both relieved to not have to look Rust in the face, and at the same time, missed it. “Caught on when you let me blow you in a men’s bathroom. Even then… wasn’t sure it was about me.”

“And here I was, thinkin’ I was bein’ subt- _ Ahhh… _ ” Rust rocked his hips back and snapped them forward hard enough to knock the air out of him. “ _ Rust… _ ”

Marty expected Rust to tease him some more, but Rust rolled his hips relentlessly into Marty at just the right angle. Marty let go of his cock and grabbed ahold of the bedding, bracing himself. He turned his head into the pillow and whined.

“Don’t hide from me,” Rust huffed into Marty’s ear.  _ Easy for you to say _ , Marty wanted to complain. 

Instead, he clutched at Rust’s arm and rolled onto his stomach, dragging Rust with him so that Rust sank even deeper into him. This time Marty didn’t hold back. He moaned brokenly, almost clawing at Rust’s arm for purchase, trying to ask for more.

“ _ Fuck me _ ,” he begged, breath hiccoughing out of him.

Rust planted his knees on either side of Marty’s thighs, rested his weight on top of Marty’s back, and did exactly as asked. He kissed the side of Marty’s neck and the juxtaposition of tenderness and razor focused action threatened to undo Marty.

“ _ Ah- ohmygo- _ ” he babbled, tipping his hips into the mattress and then back, wanting Rust deeper. Blindly, he groped for Rust’s hand as a white heat blossomed in his groin. “ _ HnnnghRuuusst… _ ”

He came hard, chanting Rust’s name. A few more over sensitive thrusts and Marty felt Rust pulse inside him.  _ Fuck, that’s weird _ . Rust’s breath was hot and damp on the back of his neck as he slowed. After a moment, Rust shifted, slipping out of Marty.  _ Yeah, that’s really fuckin’ weird.  _ But when Rust made to move away, Marty held onto his hand. He didn’t care how weird it was, he didn’t want Rust leaving him just yet.

“Stay… just for a little bit.” Rust’s weight was comforting, almost as if the solidity of Rust made what had happened more real.

“We got work to do, darlin’,” Rust whispered. 

_ Darlin’ _ ? his brain stuttered, tripping over the endearment.  _ We? _

“Oh, yeah… the case.” He let go of Rust’s hand and immediately missed him, so he rolled over and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It was quick and chaste, more because he could than out of any sort of passion. But even sated, they both lingered.

When they parted, Marty looked hard into Rust’s eyes. It was easier now. So many questions had been answered but he still burned to know more. Did Rust love him? 

“Let me make it clear: It was about you. I wanted you,” he told Rust in a even, certain tone. “I  _ still  _ want you.”

Rust touched Marty’s cheek, eyes darting over Marty’s face. Marty could see him struggling with something.

“And I never stopped,” Rust finally said softly and reluctantly, like he was giving away a part of himself that he might regret doing later.

Hope blossomed, warm and bursting, inside of Marty’s chest. He smiled at Rust, then laughed. He couldn’t contain it. Rust frowned at him at first, but then, slowly… the corners of his mouth twitched. Marty pulled him close and kissed Rust. Because he could.

To Marty, It felt like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end folks. Just the epilogue to go. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> As always, comments are my lifeblood. <3


	9. epilogue - lasts through the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning to navigate being partners but also Partners is part of the fun of fucking Rust Cohle.

They worked the case, being careful to stay under the radar. It meant doing far more illegal things than Marty was quite comfortable with. Rust seemed to sense that and would disappear, only to show up with the pictures, information, or a new lead. Marty never asked, but he always pulled Rust close to kiss him and mutter  _ What would I do without you? _

Rust’s answer was always the same:  _ I could say the same about you. _

Their relationship didn’t go back to normal. It was forever changed, but Marty would never choose to go back; to never know the joy and frustrations of being with Rust like this. There were less nights spent on Marty’s couch and more nights spent in Rust’s bed after Marty coaxed him away from the evidence. There were mornings spent curled around Rust after he’d crashed out of exhaustion. 

There were a thousand new, small things that showed Marty how he’d been caught in stasis for years. After a few morning arguments - Marty wasn’t a morning person - Rust took to waking him up by slipping down under the covers and sucking him off. And once it sunk in that he was allowed to, Marty took to touching Rust when they passed each other - a hand against the small of his back, a kiss to his cheek, an arm slid around Rust’s waist, pulling Rust into his lap.

It wasn’t until the end of their suspension was in sight that Marty worried about them losing the domestic and professional balance they’d somehow stumbled into. He wasn’t so much worried about Rust, but about himself. He was besotted and knew he hid it poorly.

“So…” he ventured one morning as they combed through phone records, keeping his eyes locked on the blurry type. “How are we gonna play this when we go back to work?”

“Not goin’ back,” Rust replied, causing Marty to jerk his head up. Rust sighed. “Yeah… been meaning to tell you. I’m done.”

He set the sheath of papers aside and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table before meeting Marty’s eyes. It was clear he was waiting for Marty to be upset, but it made a strange sort of sense, even if his knee-jerk, emotional reaction was anger because he was going to miss Rust as a partner; that Rust hadn’t consulted him about the decision.

“What do I tell Salter?” he asked instead. It was Rust’s choice, after all.

Rust leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve been thinking about that. I think… to protect you, we should act like we’re on the outs. Think you could pull off blaming me for your suspension?”

“Well… can’t say I won’t miss working with you, but… yeah. I can do that.” Marty wasn’t happy about the idea, but he trusted Rust to take the lead, like he did with everything else. “Been pissed at you enough in our years to pull that one off.”

“Good.” Rust nodded sharply, then just as abruptly dragged his chair around so that he was next to Marty. He leaned in and took ahold of one of Marty’s hand. It still shocked him, this sudden, easy intimacy. It shocked him more that Rust initiated and reciprocated just as eagerly as Marty, even if it was in his own understated way. “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

\---

In the end, they leaned into their recent ‘estrangement’. Rust figured people had noticed it, so when Marty walked into work on his first day back and Salter immediately barked at him, it took an effort not to smirk in satisfaction.

“Yeah, boss?” he asked indolently, sprawling haphazardly onto Salter’s couch.

“You enjoy your little vacation?” Salter walked around and looked down at him.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Kind of you to give me one.” Even though the suspension had been a boon for him, Salter’s hostility stuck in his craw. The major made a disbelieving scoff and threw something down on Marty’s lap.

“Obvious you learned nothin’ from it,” he grumbled. “Now, you wanna explain that?”

Marty glared up at his CO and took his time gathering the papers that had been dumped on him. He knew what they were, but what Salter didn’t know… Well, it probably would actually hurt him, in this case. Marty couldn’t bring himself to care.

He made a show of carefully reading the first paragraph of Rust’s resignation letter before flipping through the next two pages more quickly. Rust hadn’t let him read it before mailing it in so when his eyes picked out his name in the pages, he made himself move on. But he still caught snippets: _lack of professionalism…,_ _interpersonal differences…_ , _intrusion of his personal life…_

Rust really hadn’t pulled any punches.

He frowned, debating on whether to actually go back and read the whole thing, even knowing it would hurt; even knowing that most of what was in here would be a lie. But what was it that Rust said?  _ Most lies contain a kernel of truth _ .

Salter spared him the decision by snatching the letter back. Marty clenched his fists and pressed them against his thighs. A knuckle dug into a bruise Rust had left there just this morning and it reminded him of what was real. The letter was a necessary fabrication. Even if parts of it were true, they were exaggerated. He pressed a bit harder on the bruise. 

_ This _ was real.

Marty thought about Rust between his legs, sucking the livid mark to the surface with two slick fingers curled inside him. 

_ That _ was real.

“So?” Salter prompted, waving the pages like it would help him get answers out of Marty.

Marty covered the slight, secret smile that’d crept onto his face by clearing his throat.

“Looks like he resigned.” He looked up at Salter and every bit of humour disappeared. He’d thought this would be hard, but it was the easiest thing in the world to look Leroy in the eye and lie. Salter had broken something in their friendship by going after Rust. “Isn’t that what you and Speece wanted? Congratulations.”

“Don’t fuckin’ sass me, Hart.” Salter threw the letter onto his desk. “I know you two are close. What’s he playin’ at?”

“We’re partners- ex-partners, by the look of it. I don’t know what you expect me to know, exactly. I haven’t talked to him since he stormed out of here a month ago.” He straightened himself on the couch, still relaxed. It wasn’t hard now that he felt so detached from all of this bullshit. “Now, you gonna put me back to work or punish me further for someone else’s actions?”

He let the full force of his bitterness show and for a split second, he saw Salter’s certainty flicker into remorse and doubt.  _ Good _ . But then that same maddening smugness was back. He flicked a hand towards his door.

“Go fill out the paperwork for your badge and gun, then catch up on your inbox. You’ll get a case after you’re up to speed.”

\---

After that, Salter left Marty to his own devices. Marty didn’t know if the man was embarrassed or guilty or could sense that Marty didn’t want much to do with him, but he figured it was for the best. He worked the cases the thrown his way during the day - handled quickly and competently (and sometimes with Rust’s surreptitious help) - and then at night, went home to his partner to work  _ their _ case.

It’s not that he necessarily moved in with Rust. He just spent every moment he wasn’t at the precinct helping Rust with the ever-expanding mindfuck of the Ledoux case. So he spent most of his nights there.

They were so busy, that Marty forgot to renew the lease on his own place and had to rope an irritated Rust into helping him retrieve all his shit from the apartment. It was no big loss. He’d only been using it when he had visitations with Macie and Audrey. He’d have to do them at Rust’s now or figure something else out, but he figured that Rust was going to a part of their lives sooner or later, the way things were headed.

“At least we have furniture now,” he teased Rust as they lugged the couch into the place that Rust’s mattress usually occupied. It was leaned up against the wall for the time being.

“Don’t give a shit about furniture, if you haven’t noticed,” Rust grumbled, dropping his end of the couch and causing Marty to lose his grip. Marty huffed in irritation, but shook it off easily enough by snagging Rust around the waist as he headed back out to the truck. He pulled Rust close and kissed him.

“Let me change your mind about that,” he muttered against Rust’s lips, pushing him onto the couch, then dropping to his knees.

Rust was a bit more agreeable after that.

\---

It was almost like their time back in ninety-five, except that eventually, at some godforsaken hour of the night, Rust would crawl into bed with Marty in his -  _ their _ \- bedroom upstairs.

Most times, he’d curl up inside Marty’s arms, almost vibrating with exhausted, scattered mental energy, only to slowly unclench and mould against Marty’s body.

Other nights - the bad ones, when he was frustrated or his head was filled with too much darkness - he woke Marty up, eyes wild. The first time he did this, it terrified Marty as he was startled from a dream. It wasn’t until Rust straddled him, sinking down onto Marty’s cock, that Marty glimpsed the truth of it, that he needed Marty to help keep the darkness at bay. Marty was more than happy to help, wrapping his hands around Rust’s hips and slowing him down, drawing him in for lingering kisses and muttered words of devotion. Rust never said anything back, but Marty didn’t need him to. He could see it in the way Rust looked at him; the way Rust made space in his life for Marty; the way he opened up to Marty.

Rust was no longer a closed book, although much of him still stymied Marty. But for the first time in his life, Marty didn’t feel hemmed in at the thought of spending his life trying to figure this man out. The realisation came gently, just as his desire for Rust had made itself known; just as his love had crept up on him. There were no big epiphanies other than the one Marty had every morning when he woke with Rust in his arms.

How had he gotten so fucking  _ lucky _ ?

\---

Six months after their encounter in that bathroom, Marty found himself standing nervously in front of their door, playing with the keys in his pocket. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. It was a day like any other. The only difference being that he was home a little earlier than usual.

Except it wasn’t like any other day.

The department’s Human Resources had handed out packets for everyone to update information for pensions and health insurance. It was utterly routine - something that Marty did on autopilot every year - but when he came to the box that indicated  _ Single _ or  _ Married _ , along with the space underneath for the spouse’s information… 

He’d had a quiet little freak out. 

What  _ were  _ Rust and him doing? They lived together. They had sex- good sex-  _ great  _ sex. Marty was head over heels in love with Rust, even though he’d never said it aloud. Marty had been waiting for Rust to bring it up, but staring at those two, innocuous checkboxes, it suddenly occurred to him: Did Rust love him?

He squeezed the keys in his fist hard enough that they bit into his palm.  _ Enough _ . He pulled them out and unlocked the door, hand shaking.

Rust stood over what was supposed to be their dining table, staring down at something with his hands on his hips. Marty closed the door behind him and took a moment to just look at him, letting the certainty of what he felt fill him. He set his briefcase on the bar and threw his jacket over it.

“Hey, Rust?” he said, trying not to let his nerves show. “You got a moment to talk?”

“Yeah. Shoot,” Rust replied without looking up. He shuffled around a few papers with just the tips of his fingers.

“Not to make a big deal about it or anything but… are-” Marty swallowed down the lump in his throat and walked so that he was opposite Rust. “-are we…  _ dating? _ ”

“Well, we’re fuckin’ and livin’ together. I’d say so.” His tone was so matter-of-fact that it made Marty feel like an idiot, exasperation overriding his nervousness.

“ _ Jesus _ , I know that. But-”

“You wanna know if it’s just sex or if I care for you.” Rust leaned over and scribbled something down in his ubiquitous notebook.

“Uh… I guess that ‘bout covers it,” Marty admitted, still feeling foolish, but this time for being several steps behind Rust.

“Been thinkin’ about that myself. Can’t speak for you, but I don’t plan on goin’ anywhere. Thought maybe we should make it official.” Marty’s breath caught in his chest. He’d merely been hoping for a label he could use in his own head. He knew it was stupid, but he wanted to be able to look at Rust and think  _ mine _ . What Rust was handing him was… so much more than that. “Next of kin, power of attorney and all that.”

Then Marty’s head caught up with his heart and he frowned. Rust hadn’t addressed his concern at all. In fact, he’d manoeuvred deftly around it. Rust stopped mid-sentence and put down his pen. He planted his hands on the tabletop and finally looked up at Marty.

“I know what you want, Marty,” he rumbled low, sounding sad. “I’m never gonna want a wedding; never gonna be the romantic. But I care for you… more than I ever thought myself capable…”

He stood up, fingertips still touching the surface of the table as if he needed the support. His eyes were tinged pink. It was more emotion than he usually showed. Marty moved around so that he stood next to Rust. His partner turned into him and let Marty wrap him up in a hug. Marty tucked his face into Rust’s neck.

“You can say it, you know,” Rust whispered. “I know you need to.”

Marty shook his head slightly. Rust was right, he needed to, but not right now. For now, this was enough.

“Can we at least get rings?” he muttered, eliciting one of Rust’s rare laughs. His fingers slid into Marty’s hair and tugged.

“Yeah, we can.”

\---

Marty turned in the paperwork on Monday with  _ Single _ ticked off, but with Rust’s name and social filled in as his beneficiary for everything and as his emergency contact. Let Salter make of that what he would. The rest of the legal stuff would take a little longer, but on his left hand, a plain, unblemished silver band adorned his ring finger.

Marty played with the unfamiliar object, unconsciously twisting it around and around. He knew the whispers were just around the corner; knew the rumours would run wild. But in the moment, he closed his eyes and recalled slipping the ring’s matching partner onto Rust’s finger, and knew that they were untouchable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left it on an optimistic note. They still have so much darkness to face - Tuttle's suicide, the video tape, Carcosa - but they'll do it together. Salter and the rest of the LASPD can go ahead and gossip all they want. Rust and Marty truly are untouchable.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles from flor's slow motion


End file.
